UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


yM  ass. 


\  ^  i 

, 


LONDON  BOOK  CO. 

\  W.  Broadway 
Glendale,  Calif.  91204 
CI  4-0828 


WORLDLY 
WAYS 


BYWAYS 


BY 


Eliot  Gregory 

("An  Idler") 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner*s  Sons 
MDCCCXCIX 


Copyright^  1898,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merry  mount  Press,  Boston 


To 
E.  L.  Godkin^  Esqre- 

SIR: 

1WISH  your  name  to  appear  on  the 
first  page  of  a  volume,  the  composition 
of  which  was  suggested  by  you. 

Gratitude  is  said  to  be  "the  hope  of 
favors  to  come ; "  these  lines  are  written 
to  prove  that  it  may  be  the  appreciation 
of  kindnesses  received. 

Heartily  yours 

Eliot  Gregory 


A  Table  of  Contents 


CT""*_   ^  L  *    I>    7T     4f  7~i   Z7  CP 

1  o  tne  /c  zi  c/f  xy  xS  /c 

JVb.     i.  Charm 

ix 
I 

2.  The  £Moth  and  the  Star  9 

3.  Contrasted  Travelling  15 

4.  The  Outer  and  the  Inner  Woman   2 1 

5.  On  Some  (gilded  <£Mis  alliances  29 

6.  The  Complacency  of  ^Mediocrity  36 

7.  T&?  ^Discontent  of  Talent  42 

8.  Slouch  49 

9.  Social  Suggestion  57 

10.  ^Bohemia  65 

1 1 .  *Sbf  /W  'Exiles  7 1 

12.  "Seven  <*Ages"  of  Furniture  78 

1 3.  O#r  E//te  rfW  2^7/r  Life  86 

14.  T"^  «S>«^//  Summer  Hotel  92 

1 5.  iA  False  Start  99 

1 6.  e^1  Ho/x  Z/^W  1 07 

1 7.  Royalty  at  'Play  1 1 3 

1 8.  *A  1(ock  <iAhead  1 2 1 

19.  7^  Grand  Prix  127 

20.  "  T^  Treadmill"  133 
21."  Z//^  ^Master  Like  £Man  "  1 40 
22.  <tAn  English  Invasion  of  the 

Riviera  147 
[  vii  ] 


e/f    TdBLE    OF    CONTENTS 

No.  23.  *A  Common  Weakness  155 

24.  Changing  Paris  162 

25.  Contentment  169 

26.  T^f  Climber  175 

27.  7^  £rf.tf  o/'  the  'Dandies  1 8 1 

28.  (^  Ration  on  the  Wing  1 87 

29.  Husks  196 

30.  T^  Faubourg  St.  Germain  205 

3 1 .  ^Menys  ^Manners  213 

32.  <±An  Ideal  Hostess  219 

33.  The  Introducer  225 

34.  e//  Question  and  an  Answer  231 

35.  Living  on  Tour  Friends  237 

36.  American  Society  in  Italy  244 

37.  The  Newport  of  the  ^ast  252 

38.  ex/  Conquest  of  ILurope  260 

39.  <*AcI$ace  of  Slaves  267 

40.  Introspection  276 


[  viii  ] 


Z^^ 

70  the  Deader 


THERE  existed  formerly,  in  diplomatic 
circles,  a  curious  custom,  since  fallen 
into  disuse,  entitled  the  Pele  Mele, 
contrived  doubtless  by  some  distracted  Master 
of  Ceremonies  to  quell  the  endless  jealousies  and 
quarrels  for  precedence  between  courtiers  and 
diplomatists  of  contending  pretensions.  Under 
this  rule  no  rank  was  recognized,  each  person 
being  allowed  at  banquet,  fete,  or  other  public 
ceremony  only  such  place  as  he  had  been  ingen 
ious  or  fortunate  enough  to  obtain. 

Any  one  wishing  to  form  an  idea  of  the  con 
fusion  that  ensued,  of  the  intrigues  and  expedi 
ents  resorted  to,  not  only  in  procuring  prominent 
places,  but  also  in  ensuring  the  integrity  of  the 
Pele  Mele,  should  glance  over  the  amusing 
memoirs  of  M.  de  Segur. 

The  aspiring  nobles  and  ambassadors,  har 
assed  by  this  constant  preoccupation,  had  little 
time  or  inclination  left  for  any  serious  pursuit, 
since,  to  take  a  moments  repose  or  an  hours 
breathing  space  was  to  risk  falling  behind  in 
the  endless  and  aimless  race.  Strange  as  it  may 

[  «  J 


TO    THE 


appear,  the  knowledge  that  they  owed  place  and 
preferment  more  to  chance  or  intrigue  than  to 
any  personal  merit  or  inherited  right,  instead  of 
lessening  the  value  of  the  prizes  for  which  all 
were  striving,  seemed  only  to  enhance  them  in 
the  eyes  of  the  competitors. 

Success  was  the  unique  standard  by  which 
they  gauged  their  fellows.  'Those  who  succeeded 
revelled  in  the  adulation  of  their  friends,  but 
when  any  one  failed,  the  fickle  crowd  passed  him 
by  to  bow  at  more  fortunate  feet. 

No  better  picture  could  be  found  of  the 
"world"  of  to-day,  a  perpetual  Pele  Mele, 
where  such  advantages  only  are  conceded  as  we 
have  been  sufficiently  enterprising  to  obtain,  and 
are  strong  or  clever  enough  to  keep — a  constant 
competition,  a  daily  steeplechase,  favorable  to 
daring  spirits  and  personal  initiative  but  with 
the  defetf  of  keeping  frail  humanity  ever  on  the 
qui  vive. 

Philosophers  tell  us,  that  we  should  seek  hap 
piness  only  in  the  calm  of  our  own  minds,  not 
allowing  external  conditions  or  the  opinions  of 
others  to  influence  our  ways.  This  lofty  detach 
ment  from  environment  is  achieved  by  very  few. 
Indeed,  the  philosophers  themselves  (who  may  be 
said  to  have  invented  the  art  of  "posing  ")  were 


TO    THE 


generally  as  vain  as  peacocks ,  profoundly  pre 
occupied  with  the  verdift  of  their  contemporaries 
and  their  position  as  regards  posterity. 

Man  is  born  gregarious  and  remains  all  his 
life  a  herding  animal.  As  one  keen  observer 
has  written,  "So  great  is  mans  horror  of  being 
alone  that  he  will  seek  the  society  of  those  he 
neither  likes  nor  respects  sooner  than  be  left  to 
his  own."  The  laws  and  conventions  that  gov 
ern  men  s  intercourse  have,  therefore,  formed  a 
tempting  subject  for  the  writers  of  all  ages. 
Some  have  labored  hoping  to  reform  their  gen 
eration,  others  have  written  to  offer  solutions  for 
life's  many  problems. 

Beaumarchais,  whose  penetrating  wit  left  few 
subjects  untouched,  makes  his  Figaro  put  the 
subject  aside  with  "  ye  me  presse  de  rire  de  tout, 
de  peur  d^etre  oblige  d'en  pleurer." 

The  author  of  this  little  volume  pretends  to 
settle  no  disputes,  aims  at  inaugurating  no  re 
forms.  He  has  lightly  touched  on  passing  topics 
and  jotted  down,  "  to  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a 
tale,"  some  of  the  more  obvious  foibles  and  in 
consistencies  of  our  American  ways.  If  a  stray 
bit  of  philosophy  has  here  and  there  slipped  in 
between  the  lines,  it  is  mostly  of  the  laughing 
"  school"  and  used  more  in  banter  than  in  blame. 
[  xi  ] 


TO    THE 


This  much  abused"  world"  is  a  fairly  agree 
able  place  if  you  do  not  take  it  seriously.  Meet 
it  'with  a  friendly  face  and  it  'will  smile  gay  ly 
back  at  you,  but  do  not  ask  of  it  what  it  cannot 
give,  or  attribute  to  its  verdifts  more  importance 
than  they  deserve. 

ELIOT  GREGORY 

Newport,  November  first^  1897. 


Worldly  Ways  &  Byways 


Charm 


WOMEN  endowed  by  nature  with  the 
indescribable  quality  we  call  "charm" 
(for  want  of  a  better  word),  are  the 
supreme  development  of  a  perfected  race,  the 
last  word,  as  it  were,  of  civilization;  the  flower 
of  their  kind,  crowning  centuries  of  growing  re 
finement  and  cultivation.  Other  women  may 
unite  a  thousand  brilliant  qualities,  and  attrac 
tive  attributes,  may  be  beautiful  as  Astarte  or 
witty  as  Madame  de  Montespan,  those  endowed 
with  the  power  of  charm,  have  in  all  ages  and 
under  every  sky,  held  undisputed  rule  over  the 
hearts  of  their  generation. 

When  we  look  at  the  portraits  of  the  enchant 
resses  whom  history  tells  us  have  ruled  the  world 
by  their  charm,  and  swayed  the  destinies  of  em 
pires  at  their  fancy,  we  are  astonished  to  find  that 
they  have  rarely  been  beautiful.  From  Cleopatra 
or  Mary  of  Scotland  down  to  Lola  Montez,  the 
tell-tale  coin  or  canvas  reveals  the  same  marvel 
lous  fad.  We  wonder  how  these  women  attained 


such  influence  over  the  men  of  their  day,  their 
husbands  or  lovers.  We  would  do  better  to  look 
around  us,  or  inward,  and  observe  what  is  pass 
ing  in  our  own  hearts. 

Pause,  reader  mine,  a  moment  and  reflect. 
Who  has  held  the  first  place  in  your  thoughts, 
filled  your  soul,  and  influenced  your  life?  Was 
she  the  most  beautiful  of  your  acquaintances, 
the  radiant  vision  that  dazzled  your  boyish  eyes? 
Has  she  not  rather  been  some  gentle,  quiet  wo 
man  whom  you  hardly  noticed  the  first  time 
your  paths  crossed,  but  who  gradually  grew  to 
be  a  part  of  your  life — to  whom  you  instinc 
tively  turned  for  consolation  in  moments  of  dis 
couragement,  for  counsel  in  your  difficulties,  and 
whose  welcome  was  the  bright  moment  in  your 
day,  looked  forward  to  through  long  hours  of 
toil  and  worry? 

In  the  hurly-burly  of  life  we  lose  sight  of  so 
many  things  our  fathers  and  mothers  clung  to, 
and  have  drifted  so  far  away  from  their  gentle 
customs  and  simple,  home-loving  habits,  that 
one  wonders  what  impression  our  society  would 
make  on  a  woman  of  a  century  ago,  could  she 
by  some  spell  be  dropped  into  the  swing  of 
modern  days.  The  good  soul  would  be  apt  to 
find  it  rather  a  far  cry  from  the  quiet  pleasures 
of  her  youth,  to  "a  ladies'  amateur  bicycle  race" 
that  formed  the  attraction  recently  at  a  summer 
resort. 

That  we  should  have  come  to  think  it  natural 

CO 


CH^fR  3\4 

and  proper  for  a  young  wife  and  mother  to  pass 
her  mornings  at  golf,  lunching  at  the  club-house 
to  "save  time,"  returning  home  only  for  a  hur 
ried  change  of  toilet  to  start  again  on  a  bicycle 
or  for  a  round  of  calls,  an  occupation  that  will 
leave  her  just  the  half-hour  necessary  to  slip 
into  a  dinner  gown,  and  then  for  her  to  pass 
the  evening  in  dancing  or  at  the  card-table,  shows, 
when  one  takes  the  time  to  think  of  it,  how 
unconsciously  we  have  changed,  and  (with  all 
apologies  to  the  gay  hostesses  and  graceful  ath 
letes  of  to-day)  not  for  the  better. 

It  is  just  in  the  subtle  quality  of  charm  that 
the  women  of  the  last  ten  years  have  fallen  away 
from  their  elder  sisters.  They  have  been  car 
ried  along  by  a  love  of  sport,  and  by  the  set  of 
fashion's  tide,  not  stopping  to  ask  themselves 
whither  they  are  floating.  They  do  not  realize 
all  the  importance  of  their  a<5ls  nor  the  true 
meaning  of  their  metamorphosis. 

The  dear  creatures  should  be  content,  for  they 
have  at  last  escaped  from  the  bondage  of  ages, 
have  broken  their  chains,  and  vaulted  over  their 
prison  walls.  "Lords  and  masters"  have  gradu 
ally  become  very  humble  and  obedient  ser 
vants,  and  the  "love,  honour,  and  obey"  of  the 
marriage  service  might  now  more  logically  be 
spoken  by  the  man;  on  the  lips  of  the  women 
of  to-day  it  is  but  a  graceful  "fapon  de  parler" 
and  holds  only  those  who  choose  to  be  bound. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  rail  against  the  short- 

[3  ] 


WORLDLY   WrfYS    &f 


comings  of  the  day.  That  ungrateful  task  I  leave 
to  sterner  moralists,  and  hopeful  souls  who 
naively  imagine  they  can  stem  the  current  of  an 
epoch  with  the  barrier  of  their  eloquence,  or 
sweep  back  an  ocean  of  innovations  by  their 
logic.  I  should  like,  however,  to  ask  my  sisters 
one  question:  Are  they  quite  sure  that  women 
gain  by  these  changes?  Do  they  imagine,  these 
"sporty"  young  females  in  short-cut  skirts  and 
mannish  shirts  and  ties,  that  it  is  seductive  to  a 
lover,  or  a  husband  to  see  his  idol  in  a  violent 
perspiration,  her  draggled  hair  blowing  across 
a  sunburned  face,  panting  up  a  long  hill  in  front 
of  him  on  a  bicycle,  frantic  at  having  lost  her 
race?  Shade  of  gentle  William!  who  said 

A  woman  moved^  is  like  a  fountain  troubled^  — 
Muddy  r,  ill-seeming^  thick^  bereft  of  beauty. 
And  while  it  is  so,  none  so  dry  or  thirsty 
Will  deign  to  sip  or  touch  one  drop  of  it. 

Is  the  modern  girl  under  the  impression  that 
men  will  be  contented  with  poor  imitations  of 
themselves,  to  share  their  homes  and  be  the 
mothers  of  their  children?  She  is  throwing  away 
the  substance  for  the  shadow! 

The  moment  women  step  out  from  the  sanc 
tuary  of  their  homes,  the  glamour  that  girlhood 
or  maternity  has  thrown  around  them  cast  aside, 
that  moment  will  they  cease  to  rule  mankind. 
Women  may  agitate  until  they  have  obtained 
political  recognition,  but  will  awake  from  their 

[4] 


foolish  dream  of  power,  realizing  too  late  what 
they  have  sacrificed  to  obtain  it,  that  the  price 
has  been  very  heavy,  and  the  fruit  of  their  strug 
gles  bitter  on  their  lips. 

There  are  few  men,  I  imagine,  of  my  genera 
tion  to  whom  the  words  "home"  and  "mother" 
have  not  a  penetrating  charm,  who  do  not  look 
back  with  softened  heart  and  tender  thoughts  to 
fireside  scenes  of  evening  readings  and  twilight 
talks  at  a  mother's  knee,  realizing  that  the  best 
in  their  natures  owes  its  growth  to  these  influ 
ences. 

I  sometimes  look  about  me  and  wonder  what 
the  word  "mother"  will  mean  later,  to  modern 
little  boys.  It  will  evoke,  I  fear,  a  confused  re 
membrance  of  some  centaur-like  being,  half  wo 
man,  half  wheel,  or  as  it  did  to  neglected  little 
Rawdon  Crawley,  the  vision  of  a  radiant  creature 
in  gauze  and  jewels,  driving  away  to  endless 
fetes — fetes  followed  by  long  mornings,  when  he 
was  told  not  to  make  any  noise,  or  play  too  loudly, 
"as  poor  mamma  is  resting."  What  other  mem 
ories  can  the  "successful"  woman  of  to-day 
hope  to  leave  in  the  minds  of  her  children?  If 
the  child  remembers  his  mother  in  this  way,  will 
not  the  man  who  has  known  and  perhaps  loved 
her,  feel  the  same  sensation  of  empty  futility  when 
her  name  is  mentioned? 

The  woman  who  proposes  a  game  of  cards  to 
a  youth  who  comes  to  pass  an  hour  in  her  soci 
ety,  can  hardly  expect  him  to  carry  away  a  par- 

[5] 


WJtTS    & 


ticularly  tender  memory  of  her  as  he  leaves  the 
house.  The  girl  who  has  rowed,  ridden,  or  raced 
at  a  man's  side  for  days,  with  the  object  of  get 
ting  the  better  of  him  at  some  sport  or  pastime, 
cannot  reasonably  hope  to  be  connected  in  his 
thoughts  with  ideas  more  tender  or  more  ele 
vated  than  "odds"  or  "handicaps,"  with  an  un 
dercurrent  of  pique  if  his  unsexed  companion 
has  "downed"  him  successfully. 

What  man,  unless  he  be  singularly  dissolute 
or  unfortunate,  but  turns  his  steps,  when  he  can, 
towards  some  dainty  parlor  where  he  is  sure  of 
finding  a  smiling,  soft-voiced  woman,  whose 
welcome  he  knows  will  soothe  his  irritated  nerves 
and  restore  the  even  balance  of  his  temper,  whose 
charm  will  work  its  subtle  way  into  his  troubled 
spirit?  The  wife  he  loves,  or  the  friend  he  ad 
mires  and  respects,  will  do  more  for  him  in  one 
such  quiet  hour  when  two  minds  commune,  com 
ing  closer  to  the  real  man,  and  moving  him  to 
braver  efforts,  and  nobler  aims,  than  all  the  beau 
ties  and  "sporty"  acquaintances  of  a  lifetime.  No 
matter  what  a  man's  education  or  taste  is,  none 
are  insensible  to  such  an  atmosphere  or  to  the 
grace  and  witchery  a  woman  can  lend  to  the  sim 
plest  surroundings.  She  need  not  be  beautiful  or 
brilliant  to  hold  him  in  lifelong  allegiance,  if  she 
but  possess  this  magnetism. 

Madame  Recamier  was  a  beautiful,  but  not  a 
brilliant  woman,  yet  she  held  men  her  slaves  for 
years.  To  know  her  was  to  fall  under  her  charm, 

[6] 


and  to  feel  it  once  was  to  remain  her  adorer  for 
life.  She  will  go  down  to  history  as  the  type  of 
a  fascinating  woman.  Being  asked  once  by  an 
acquaintance  what  spell  she  worked  on  mankind 
that  enabled  her  to  hold  them  for  ever  at  her 
feet,  she  laughingly  answered: 

"I  have  always  found  two  words  sufficient. 
When  a  visitor  comes  into  my  salon,  I  say, 
'  Enfin  \  '  and  when  he  gets  up  to  go  away,  I  say, 


"What  is  this  wonderful  '  charm'  he  is  writ 
ing  about?"  I  hear  some  sprightly  maiden  in 
quire  as  she  reads  these  lines.  My  dear  young 
lady,  if  you  ask  the  question,  you  have  judged 
yourself  and  been  found  wanting.  But  to  satisfy 
you  as  far  as  I  can,  I  will  try  and  define  it  — 
not  by  telling  you  what  it  is;  that  is  beyond  my 
power  —  but  by  negatives,  the  only  way  in  which 
subtle  subjects  can  be  approached. 

A  woman  of  charm  is  never  flustered  and 
never  distraite.  She  talks  little,  and  rarely  of  her 
self,  remembering  that  bores  are  persons  who 
insist  on  talking  about  themselves.  She  does  not 
break  the  thread  of  a  conversation  by  irrelevant 
questions  or  confabulate  in  an  undertone  with 
the  servants.  No  one  of  her  guests  receives  more 
of  her  attention  than  another  and  none  are  neg 
lected.  She  offers  to  each  one  who  speaks  the 
homage  of  her  entire  attention.  She  never  makes 
an  effort  to  be  brilliant  or  entertain  with  her  wit. 
She  is  far  too  clever  for  that.  Neither  does  she 

[7] 


fcf 


volunteer  information  nor  converse  about  her 
troubles  or  her  ailments,  nor  wander  off  into  de 
tails  about  people  you  do  not  know. 

She  is  all  things  to  each  man  she  likes,  in  the 
best  sense  of  that  phrase,  appreciating  his  qual 
ities,  stimulating  him  to  better  things. 

-  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness  and  a  smile  and  eloquence  of 

beauty  ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild  and  healing  sympathy 

that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware. 


[8] 


The  Moth  and  the  Star 


THE  truth  of  the  saying  that  "it  is  al 
ways  the  unexpected  that  happens," 
receives  in  this  country  a  confirmation 
from  an  unlooked-for  quarter,  as  does  the  fact 
of  human  nature  being  always,  discouragingly, 
the  same  in  spite  of  varied  surroundings.  This 
sounds  like  a  paradox,  but  is  an  exceedingly 
simple  statement  easily  proved. 

That  the  great  mass  of  Americans,  drawn  as 
they  are  from  such  varied  sources,  should  take 
any  interest  in  the  comings  and  goings  or  social 
doings  of  a  small  set  of  wealthy  and  fashionable 
people,  is  certainly  an  unexpected  development. 
That  to  read  of  the  amusements  and  home  life 
of  a  clique  of  people  with  whom  they  have  little 
in  common,  whose  whole  education  and  point 
of  view  are  different  from  their  own,  and  whom 
they  have  rarely  seen  and  never  expect  to  meet, 
should  afford  the  average  citizen  any  amuse 
ment  seems  little  short  of  impossible. 

One  accepts  as  a  natural  sequence  that  abroad 
(where  an  hereditary  nobility  have  ruled  for  cen 
turies,  and  accustomed  the  people  to  look  up  to 
them  as  the  visible  embodiment  of  all  that  is 
splendid  and  unattainable  in  life)  such  interest 
should  exist.  That  the  home-coming  of  an  Eng 
lish  or  French  nobleman  to  his  estates  should 

[9] 


WO'P^L'DLY 


excite  the  enthusiasm  of  hundreds  more  or  less 
dependent  upon  him  for  their  amusement  or 
more  material  advantages;  that  his  marriage  to 
an  heiress  —  meaning  to  them  the  re-opening 
of  a  long-closed  chateau  and  the  beginning  of  a 
period  of  prosperity  for  the  district  —  should  ex 
cite  his  neighbors  is  not  to  be  wondered  at. 

It  is  well  known  that  whole  regions  have  been 
made  prosperous  by  the  residence  of  a  court, 
witness  the  wealth  and  trade  brought  into  Scot 
land  by  the  Queen's  preference  for  "the  Land  of 
Cakes,"  and  the  golden  harvest  and  uncounted 
good  results  which  followed  Her  Gracious  Ma 
jesty's  recent  visit  to  Ireland.  But  in  this  land, 
where  every  reason  for  interesting  one  class  in 
another  seems  lacking,  that  thousands  of  well- 
to-do  people  (half  the  time  not  born  in  this  hem 
isphere),  should  delightedly  devour  columns  of 
incorrect  information  about  New  York  dances 
and  Lenox  house-parties,  winter  cruises,or  New 
port  coaching  parades,  strikes  the  observer  as  the 
"unexpected"  in  its  purest  form. 

That  this  interest  exists  is  absolutely  certain. 
During  a  trip  in  the  West,  some  seasons  ago,  I 
was  dumbfounded  to  find  that  the  members  of 
a  certain  New  York  set  were  familiarly  spoken 
of  by  their  first  names,  and  was  assailed  with 
all  sorts  of  eager  questions  when  it  was  discov 
ered  that  I  knew  them.  A  certain  young  lady, 
at  that  time  a  belle  in  New  York,  was  currently 
called  Sally,  and  a  well-known  sportsman  Fred, 

[  10] 


THE    3WOTH   <ANT>    THE 


by  thousands  of  people  who  had  never  seen  either 
of  them.  It  seems  impossible,  does  it  not?  Let  us 
look  a  little  closer  into  the  reason  of  this  inter 
est,  and  we  shall  find  how  simple  is  the  apparent 
paradox. 

Perhaps  in  no  country,  in  all  the  world,  do 
the  immense  middle  classes  lead  such  uninter 
esting  lives,  and  have  such  limited  resources  at 
their  disposal  for  amusement  or  the  passing  of 
leisure  hours. 

Abroad  the  military  bands  play  constantly  in 
the  public  parks;  the  museums  and  palaces  are 
always  open  wherein  to  pass  rainy  Sunday  af 
ternoons;  every  village  has  its  religious  fetes  and 
local  fair,  attended  with  dancing  and  games.  All 
these  mental  relaxations  are  lacking  in  our  newer 
civilization;  life  is  stripped  of  everything  that  is 
not  distinctly  practical;  the  dull  round  of  weekly 
toil  is  only  broken  by  the  duller  idleness  of  an 
American  Sunday.  Naturally,  these  people  long 
for  something  outside  of  themselves  and  their 
narrow  sphere. 

Suddenly  there  arises  a  class  whose  wealth 
permits  them  to  break  through  the  iron  circle 
of  work  and  boredom,  who  do  picturesque  and 
delightful  things,  which  appeal  directly  to  the 
imagination  ;  they  build  a  summer  residence  com 
plete,  in  six  weeks,  with  furniture  and  bric-a-brac, 
on  the  top  of  a  roadless  mountain;  they  sail  in 
fairylike  yachts  to  summer  seas,  and  marry  their 
daughters  to  the  heirs  of  ducal  houses;  they  float 


up  the  Nile  in  dahabeeyah,  or  pass  the  "month 
of  flowers"  in  far  Japan. 

It  is  but  human  nature  to  delight  in  reading  of 
these  things.  Here  the  great  mass  of  the  people 
find  (and  eagerly  seize  on),  the  element  of  ro 
mance  lacking  in  their  lives,  infinitely  more 
enthralling  than  the  doings  of  any  novel's  hero 
ine.  It  is  real!  It  is  taking  place!  and — still 
deeper  reason — in  every  ambitious  American 
heart  lingers  the  secret  hope  that  with  luck 
and  good  management  they  too  may  do  those 
very  things,  or  at  least  that  their  children  will 
enjoy  the  fortunes  they  have  gained,  in  just  those 
ways.  The  gloom  of  the  monotonous  present  is 
brightened,  the  patient  toiler  returns  to  his  desk 
with  something  definite  before  him — an  objec 
tive  point — towards  which  he  can  struggle;  he 
knows  that  this  is  no  impossible  dream.  Dozens 
have  succeeded  and  prove  to  him  what  energy 
and  enterprise  can  accomplish. 

Do  not  laugh  at  this  suggestion;  it  is  far  truer 
than  you  imagine.  Many  a  weary  woman  has 
turned  from  such  reading  to  her  narrow  duties, 
feeling  that  life  is  not  all  work,  and  with  renewed 
hope  in  the  possibilities  of  the  future. 

Doubtless  a  certain  amount  of  purely  idle 
curiosity  is  mingled  with  the  other  feelings.  I 
remember  quite  well  showing  our  city  sights  to 
a  bored  party  of  Western  friends,  and  failing 
entirely  to  amuse  them,  when,  happening  to 
mention  as  we  drove  up  town,  "there  goes  Mr. 

['.**] 


THE    MOTH    ^NT>    THE 


Blank,"  (naminga  prominent  leaderof  cotillions), 
my  guests  nearly  fell  over  each  other  and  out  of 
the  carriage  in  their  eagerness  to  see  the  gentle 
man  of  whom  they  had  read  so  much,  and  who 
was,  in  those  days,  a  power  in  his  way,  and  sev 
eral  times  after  they  expressed  the  greatest  sat 
isfaction  at  having  seen  him. 

I  have  found,  with  rare  exceptions,  and  the 
experience  has  been  rather  widely  gathered  all 
over  the  country,  that  this  interest  —  or  call  it 
what  you  will  —  has  been  entirely  without  spite 
or  bitterness,  rather  the  delight  of  a  child  in  a 
fairy  story.  For  people  are  rarely  envious  of 
things  far  removed  from  their  grasp.  You  will 
find  that  a  woman  who  is  bitter  because  her 
neighbor  has  a  girl  "help"  or  a  more  comfort 
able  cottage,  rarely  feels  envy  towards  the  owners 
of  opera-boxes  or  yachts.  Such  heart-burnings 
(let  us  hope  they  are  few)  are  among  a  class  born 
in  the  shadow  of  great  wealth,  and  bred  up  with 
tastes  that  they  can  neither  relinquish  nor  sat 
isfy.  The  large  majority  of  people  show  only  a 
good-natured  inclination  to  chaff,  none  of  the 
"class  feeling"  which  certain  papers  and  certain 
politicians  try  to  excite.  Outside  of  the  large  cities 
with  their  foreign-bred,  semi-anarchistic  popula 
tions,  the  tone  is  perfectly  friendly  ;  for  the  sim 
ple  reason  that  it  never  entered  into  the  head  of 
any  American  to  imagine  that  there  was  any 
class  difference.  To  him  his  rich  neighbors  are 
simply  his  lucky  neighbors,  almost  his  relations, 

[  -3  ] 


WrfYS    fcf 


who,  starting  from  a  common  stock,  have  been 
able  to  "get  there"  sooner  than  he  has  done. 
So  he  wishes  them  luck  on  the  voyage  in  which 
he  expects  to  join  them  as  soon  as  he  has  had 
time  to  make  a  fortune. 

So  long  as  the  world  exists,  or  at  least  until 
we  have  reformed  it  and  adopted  Mr.  Bellamy's 
delightful  scheme  of  existence  as  described  in 
"Looking  Backward,"  great  fortunes  will  be 
made,  and  painful  contrasts  be  seen,  especially  in 
cities,  and  it  would  seem  to  be  the  duty  of  the 
press  to  soften  —  certainly  not  to  sharpen  —  the 
edge  of  discontent.  As  long  as  human  nature  is 
human  nature,  and  the  poor  care  to  read  of  the 
doings  of  the  more  fortunate,  by  all  means  give 
them  the  reading  they  enjoy  and  demand,  but 
let  it  be  written  in  a  kindly  spirit  so  that  it  may 
be  a  cultivation  as  well  as  a  recreation.  Treat 
this  perfectly  natural  and  honest  taste  honestly 
and  naturally,  for,  after  all,  it  is 

The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 

The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow. 


Contrasted  Travelling 


WHEN  our  parents  went  to  Europe 
fifty  years  ago,  it  was  the  event  of  a 
lifetime — a  tour  lovingly  mapped  out 
in  advance  with  advice  from  travelled  friends. 
Passports  were  procured,  books  read,  wills  made, 
and  finally,  prayers  were  offered  up  in  church 
and  solemn  leave-taking  performed.  Once  on 
the  other  side,  descriptive  letters  were  consci 
entiously  written,  and  eagerly  read  by  friends 
at  home, — in  spite  of  these  epistles  being  on 
the  thinnest  of  paper  and  with  crossing  carried 
to  a  fine  art,  for  postage  was  high  in  the  forties. 
Above  all,  a  journal  was  kept. 

Such  a  journal  lies  before  me  as  I  write. 
Four  little  volumes  in  worn  morocco  covers 
and  faded  "Italian"  writing,  more  precious 
than  all  my  other  books  combined,  their  sight 
recalls  that  lost  time — my  youth — when,  as  a 
reward,  they  were  unlocked  that  I  might  look 
at  the  drawings,  and  the  sweetest  voice  in  the 
world  would  read  to  me  from  them!  Happy, 
vanished  days,  that  are  so  far  away  they  seem 
to  have  been  in  another  existence! 

The  first  volume  opens  with  the  voyage 
across  the  Atlantic,  made  in  an  American  clip 
per  (a  model  unsurpassed  the  world  over), 
which  was  accomplished  in  thirteen  days,  a  feat 


rarely  equalled  now,  by  sail.  Genial  Captain  Nye 
was  in  command.  The  same  who  later,  when 
a  steam  propelled  vessel  was  offered  him,  re 
fused,  as  unworthy  of  a  seaman,  "to  boil  a  kettle 
across  the  ocean." 

Life  friendships  were  made  in  those  little 
cabins,  under  the  swinging  lamp  the  travellers 
re-read  last  volumes  so  as  to  be  prepared  to  ap 
preciate  everything  on  landing.  Ireland,  England 
and  Scotland  were  visited  with  an  enthusiasm 
born  of  Scott,  the  tedium  of  long  coaching  jour 
neys  being  beguiled  by  the  first  "numbers"  of 
"Pickwick,"  over  which  the  men  of  the  party 
roared,  but  which  the  ladies  did  not  care  for, 
thinking  it  vulgar,  and  not  to  be  compared  to 
"  Waverley,"  "Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  or  "The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho." 

A  circular  letter  to  our  diplomatic  agents 
abroad  was  presented  in  each  city,  a  rite  inva 
riably  followed  by  an  invitation  to  dine,  for 
which  occasions  a  black  satin  frock  with  a  low 
body  and  a  few  simple  ornaments,  including 
(supreme  elegance)  a  diamond  cross,  were  car 
ried  in  the  trunks.  In  London  a  travelling  car 
riage  was  bought  and  stocked,  the  indispensable 
courier  engaged,  half  guide,  half  servant,  who 
was  expected  to  explore  a  city,  or  wait  at  table, 
as  occasion  required.  Four  days  were  passed 
between  Havre  and  Paris,  and  the  slow  progress 
across  Europe  was  accomplished,  Murray  in  one 
hand  and  Byron  in  the  other. 

[  16] 


CONTR^tSTET)    TR^FELLINQ 

One  page  used  particularly  to  attract  my 
boyish  attention.  It  was  headed  by  a  na'ive 
little  drawing  of  the  carriage  at  an  Italian  inn 
door,  and  described  how,  after  the  dangers  and 
discomforts  of  an  Alpine  pass,  they  descended 
by  sunny  slopes  into  Lombardy.  Oh!  the  rap 
ture  that  breathes  from  those  simple  pages! 
The  vintage  scenes,  the  mid-day  halt  for  lunch 
eon  eaten  in  the  open  air,  the  afternoon  start, 
the  front  seat  of  the  carriage  heaped  with  purple 
grapes,  used  to  fire  my  youthful  imagination 
and  now  recalls  Madame  de  StaeTs  line  on  per 
fect  happiness:  "To  be  young!  to  be  in  love!  to 
be  in  Italy!" 

Do  people  enjoy  Europe  as  much  now?  I 
doubt  it!  It  has  become  too  much  a  matter  of 
course,  a  necessary  part  of  the  routine  of  life. 
Much  of  the  bloom  is  brushed  from  foreign 
scenes  by  descriptive  books  and  photographs, 
that  St.  Mark's  or  Mt.  Blanc  has  become  as 
familiar  to  a  child's  eye  as  the  house  he  lives 
in,  and  in  consequence  the  reality  now  instead 
of  being  a  revelation  is  often  a  disappointment. 

In  my  youth,  it  was  still  an  event  to  cross. 
I  remember  my  first  voyage  on  the  old  side- 
wheeled  Scotia,  and  Captain  Judkins  in  a  wheeled 
chair,  and  a  perpetual  bad  temper,  being  pushed 
about  the  deck;  and  our  delight,  when  the  in 
evitable  female  asking  him  (three  days  out)  how 
far  we  were  from  land,  got  the  answer  "about 
a  mile!" 

[17] 


WORLDLY 


"Indeed!  How  interesting!  In  which  direc 
tion?" 

"In  that  direction,  madam,"  shouted  the  cap 
tain,  pointing  downward  as  he  turned  his  back 
to  her. 

If  I  remember,  we  were  then  thirteen  days 
getting  to  Liverpool,  and  made  the  acquaint 
ance  on  board  of  the  people  with  whom  we 
travelled  during  most  of  that  winter.  Imagine 
anyone  now  making  an  acquaintance  on  board 
asteamer!  In  those  simple  days  people  depended 
on  the  friendships  made  at  summer  hotels  or 
boarding-houses  for  their  visiting  list.  At  present, 
when  a  girl  comes  out,  her  mother  presents  her 
to  everybody  she  will  be  likely  to  know  if  she 
were  to  live  a  century.  In  the  seventies,  ladies 
cheerfully  shared  their  state-rooms  with  women 
they  did  not  know,  and  often  became  friends  in 
consequence;  but  now,  unless  a  certain  deck-suite 
can  be  secured,  with  bath  and  sitting-room,  on 
one  or  two  particular  "steamers,"  the  great  lady 
is  in  despair.  Yet  our  mothers  were  quite  as  re 
fined  as  the  present  generation,  only  they  took 
life  simply,  as  they  found  it. 

Children  are  now  taken  abroad  so  young,  that 
before  they  have  reached  an  age  to  appreciate 
what  they  see,  Europe  has  become  to  them  a 
twice-told  tale.  So  true  is  this,  that  a  receipt  for 
making  children  good  Americans  is  tobringthem 
up  abroad.  Once  they  get  back  here  it  is  hard  to 
entice  them  away  again. 


CONTR^STET)    TR  *A  V  E  L  L  INQ 

With  each  improvement  in  the  speed  of  our 
steamers,  something  of  the  glamour  of  Europe 
vanishes.  The  crowds  that  yearly  rush  across  see 
and  appreciate  less  in  a  lifetime  than  our  parents 
did  in  their  one  tour  abroad.  A  good  lady  of 
my  acquaintance  was  complaining  recently  how 
much  Paris  bored  her. 

"What  can  you  do  to  pass  the  time?"  she 
asked.  I  innocently  answered  that  I  knew  noth 
ing  so  entrancing  as  long  mornings  passed  at  the 
Louvre. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do  that  too,"  she  replied,  "but  I 
like  the  'Bon  Marche'  best!" 

A  trip  abroad  has  become  a  purely  social 
function  to  a  large  number  of  wealthy  Ameri 
cans,  including  "presentation"  in  London  and 
a  winter  in  Rome  or  Cairo.  And  just  as  a  "  smart " 
Englishman  is  sure  to  tell  you  that  he  has  never 
visited  the  "Tower,"  it  has  become  good  form 
to  ignore  the  sight-seeing  side  of  Europe;  hun 
dreds  of  New  Yorkers  never  seeing  anything  of 
Paris  beyond  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  Bois. 
They  would  as  soon  think  of  going  to  Cluny  or 
St.  Denis  as  of  visiting  the  museum  in  our  park! 

Such  people  go  to  Fontainebleau  because  they 
are  buying  furniture,  and  they  wish  to  see  the 
best  models.  They  go  to  Versailles  on  the  coach 
and  "do"  the  Palace  during  the  half-hour  be 
fore  luncheon.  Beyond  that,  enthusiasm  rarely 
carries  them.  As  soon  as  they  have  settled  them 
selves  at  the  Bristol  or  the  Rhin  begins  the  end- 

[  '9] 


less  treadmill  of  leaving  cards  on  all  the  people 
just  seen  at  home,  and  whom  they  will  meet  again 
in  a  couple  of  months  at  Newport  or  Bar  Har 
bor.  This  duty  and  the  all-entrancing  occupation 
of  getting  clothes  fills  up  every  spare  hour.  In 
deed,  clothes  seem  to  pervade  the  air  of  Paris  in 
May,  the  conversation  rarely  deviating  from 
them.  If  you  meet  a  lady  you  know  looking  ill, 
and  ask  the  cause,  it  generally  turns  out  to  be 
"four  hours  a  day  standing  to  be  fitted."  In 
credible  as  it  may  seem,  I  have  been  told  of  one 
plain  maiden  lady,  who  makes  a  trip  across, 
spring  and  autumn,  with  the  sole  obje6t  of  get 
ting  her  two  yearly  outfits. 

Remembering  the  hundreds  of  cultivated 
people  whose  dream  in  life  (often  unrealized 
from  lack  of  means)  has  been  to  go  abroad  and 
visit  the  scenes  their  reading  has  made  familiar, 
and  knowing  what  such  a  trip  would  mean  to 
them,  and  how  it  would  be  looked  back  upon 
during  the  rest  of  an  obscure  life,  I  felt  it  almost 
a  duty  to  "suppress"  a  wealthy  female  (doubtless 
an  American  cousin  of  Lady  Midas)  when  she 
informed  me,  the  other  day,  that  decidedly  she 
would  not  go  abroad  this  spring. 

"It  is  not  necessary.  Worth  has  my  meas 
ures!" 


[20] 


The  Outer  and  the  Inner 

Woman 


IT  is  a  sad  commentary  on  our  boasted  civil 
ization  that  cases  of  shoplifting  occur  more 
and  more  frequently  each  year,  in  which  the 
delinquents  are  women  of  education  and  refine 
ment,  or  at  least  belong  to  families  and  occupy 
positions  in  which  one  would  expect  to  find  those 
qualities!  The  reason,  however,  is  not  difficult 
to  discover. 

In  the  wake  of  our  hasty  and  immature  pros 
perity  has  come  (as  it  does  to  all  suddenly  en 
riched  societies)  a  love  of  ostentation,  a  desire 
to  dazzle  the  crowd  by  displays  of  luxury  and 
rich  trappings  indicative  of  crude  and  vulgar 
standards.  The  newly  acquired  money,  instead 
of  being  expended  for  solid  comforts  or  articles 
which  would  afford  lasting  satisfaction,  is  lav 
ished  on  what  can  be  worn  in  public,  or  the 
outer  shell  of  display,  while  the  home  table  and 
fireside  belongings  are  neglected.  A  glance  around 
our  theatres,  or  at  the  men  and  women  in  our 
crowded  thoroughfares,  is  sufficient  to  reveal  to 
even  a  casual  observer  that  the  mania  for  fine 
clothes  and  what  is  costly,  'per  se,  has  become 
the  besetting  sin  of  our  day  and  our  land. 

The  tone  of  most  of  the  papers  and  of  our 
theatrical  advertisements  reflects  this  feeling. 

[21    ] 


<BYW<AYS 


The  amount  of  money  expended  for  a  work  of 
art  or  a  new  building  is  mentioned  before  any 
comment  as  to  its  beauty  or  fitness.  A  play  is 
spoken  of  as  "Manager  So  and  So's  thirty- 
thousand-dollar  production!"  The  fact  that  a 
favorite  actress  will  appear  in  four  different  dresses 
during  the  three  acts  of  a  comedy,  each  toilet 
being  a  special  creation  designed  for  her  by  a 
leading  Parisian  house,  is  considered  of  supreme 
importance  and  is  dwelt  upon  in  the  programme 
as  a  special  attraction. 

It  would  be  astonishing  if  the  taste  of  our 
women  were  different,  considering  the  way  clothes 
are  eternally  being  dangled  before  their  eyes. 
Leading  papers  publish  illustrated  supplements 
devoted  exclusively  to  the  subject  of  attire,  thus 
carrying  temptation  into  every  humble  home, 
and  suggesting  unattainable  luxuries.  Windows 
in  many  of  the  larger  shops  contain  life-sized 
manikins  loaded  with  the  latest  costly  and  ephem 
eral  caprices  of  fashion  arranged  to  catch  the 
eye  of  the  poorer  class  of  women,  who  stand  in 
hundreds  gazing  at  the  display  like  larks  at 
tracted  by  a  mirror!  Watch  those  women  as  they 
turn  away,  and  listen  to  their  sighs  of  discontent 
and  envy.  Do  they  not  tell  volumes  about  petty 
hopes  and  ambitions? 

I  do  not  refer  to  the  wealthy  women  whose 
toilets  are  in  keeping  with  their  incomes  and  the 
general  footing  of  their  households;  that  they 
should  spend  more  or  less  in  fitting  themselves 

[22] 


The  OUTBID  and  the  INNE^  WO  3\4 <A  3^ 

out  daintily  is  of  little  importance.  The  point 
where  this  subject  becomes  painful  is  in  families 
of  small  means  where  young  girls  imagine  that 
to  be  elaborately  dressed  is  the  first  essential  of 
existence,  and,  in  consequence,  bend  their  labors 
and  their  intelligence  towards  this  end.  Last 
spring  I  asked  an  old  friend  where  she  and  her 
daughters  intended  passing  their  summer.  Her 
answer  struck  me  as  being  characteristic  enough 
to  quote:  "We  should  much  prefer,"  she  said, 
"returning  to  Bar  Harbor,  for  we  all  enjoy  that 
place  and  have  many  friends  there.  But  trie  truth 
is,  my  daughters  have  bought  themselves  very 
little  in  the  way  of  toilet  this  year,  as  our  finances 
are  not  in  a  flourishing  condition.  So  my  poor 
girls  will  be  obliged  to  make  their  last  year's 
dresses  do  for  another  season.  Under  these  cir 
cumstances,  it  is  out  of  the  question  for  us  to  re 
turn  a  second  summer  to  the  same  place." 

I  do  not  know  how  this  anecdote  strikes  my 
readers.  It  made  me  thoughtful  and  sad  to  think 
that,  in  a  family  of  intelligent  and  practical  wo 
men,  such  a  reason  should  be  considered  suffi 
cient  to  outweigh  enjoyment,  social  relations, 
even  health,  and  allowed  to  change  the  plans  of 
an  entire  family. 

As  American  women  are  so  fond  of  copying 
English  ways  they  should  be  willing  to  take  a 
few  lessons  on  the  subject  of  raiment  from  across 
the  water.  As  this  is  not  intended  to  be  a  dis 
sertation  on  "How  to  Dress  Well  on  Nothing 


<BYW<AYS 


a  Year,"  and  as  I  feel  the  greatest  diffidence  in 
approaching  a  subject  of  which  I  know  abso 
lutely  nothing,  it  will  be  better  to  sheer  off  from 
these  reefs  and  quicksands.  Every  one  who  reads 
these  lines  will  know  perfectly  well  what  is  meant, 
when  reference  is  made  to  the  good  sense  and 
practical  utility  of  English  women's  dress. 

What  disgusts  and  angers  me  (when  my  way 
takes  me  into  our  surface  or  elevated  cars  or 
into  ferry  boats  and  local  trains)  is  the  utter 
dissonance  between  the  outfit  of  most  of  the  wo 
men  I  meet  and  their  position  and  occupation. 
So  universal  is  this,  that  it  might  almost  be  laid 
down  as  an  axiom,  that  the  American  woman, 
no  matter  in  what  walk  of  life  you  observe  her, 
or  what  the  time  or  the  place,  is  always  persis 
tently  and  grotesquely  overdressed.  From  the 
women  who  frequent  the  hotels  of  our  summer 
or  winter  resorts,  down  all  the  steps  of  the  social 
staircase  to  the  char-woman,  who  consents  (spas 
modically)  to  remove  the  dust  and  waste-papers 
from  my  office,  there  seems  to  be  the  same  com 
plete  disregard  of  fitness.  The  other  evening,  in 
leaving  my  rooms,  I  brushed  against  a  portly 
person  in  the  half-light  of  the  corridor.  There 
was  a  shimmer  of  (what  appeared  to  my  inex 
perienced  eyes  as)  costly  stuffs,  a  huge  hat  crowned 
the  shadow  itself,  "topped  by  nodding  plumes," 
which  seemed  to  account  for  the  depleted  condi 
tion  of  my  feather  duster. 

I  found  on  inquiring  of  the  janitor,  that  the 


The  OUTE^  and  the  INNE^ 

dressy  person  I  had  met,  was  the  char-woman  in 
street  attire,  and  that  a  closet  was  set  aside  in 
the  building,  for  the  special  purpose  of  her 
morning  and  evening  transformations,  which 
she  underwent  in  the  belief  that  her  social 
position  in  Avenue  A  would  suffer,  should  she 
appear  in  the  streets  wearing  anything  less  costly 
than  seal-skin  and  velvet  or  such  imitations  of 
those  expensive  materials  as  her  stipend  would 
permit. 

I  have  as  tenants  of  a  small  wooden  house  in 
Jersey  City,  a  bank  clerk,  his  wife  and  their 
three  daughters.  He  earns  in  the  neighborhood 
of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year.  Their  rent  (with 
which,  by  the  way,  they  are  always  in  arrears)  is 
three  hundred  dollars.  I  am  favored  spring  and 
autumn  by  a  visit  from  the  ladies  of  that  family, 
in  the  hope  (generally  futile)  of  inducing  me  to 
do  some  ornamental  papering  or  painting  in  their 
residence,  subjects  on  which  they  have  by  ex 
perience  found  my  agent  to  be  unapproachable. 
When  those  four  women  descend  upon  me,  I 
am  fairly  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  their  attire, 
and  lost  in  wonder  as  to  how  the  price  of  all 
that  finery  can  have  been  squeezed  out  of  the 
twelve  remaining  hundreds  of  their  income. 
When  I  meet  the  father  he  is  shabby  to  the 
outer  limits  of  the  genteel.  His  hat  has,  I  am 
sure,  supported  the  suns  and  snowstorms  of  a 
dozen  seasons.  There  is  a  threadbare  shine  on  his 
apparel  that  suggests  a  heartache  in  each  whitened 

C*5] 


WOT^L<DLY   W<AYS    fcf 


seam,  but  the  ladies  are  mirrors  of  fashion,  as  well 
as  moulds  of  form.  What  can  remain  for  any  creat 
ure  comforts  after  all  those  fine  clothes  have  been 
paid  for?  And  how  much  is  put  away  for  the  years 
when  the  long-suffering  money  maker  will  be 
past  work,  or  saved  towards  the  time  when  sick 
ness  or  accident  shall  appear  on  the  horizon? 
How  those  ladies  had  the  "nerve"  to  enter  a 
ferry  boat  or  crowd  into  a  cable  car,  dressed  as 
they  were,  has  always  been  a  marvel  to  me.  A 
landau  and  two  liveried  servants  would  barely 
have  been  in  keeping  with  their  appearance. 

Not  long  ago,  a  great  English  nobleman,  who 
is  also  famous  in  the  yachting  world,  visited  this 
country  accompanied  by  his  two  daughters, 
high-bred  and  genial  ladies.  No  self-respecling 
American  shop  girl  or  fashionable  typewriter 
would  have  condescended  to  appear  in  the  inex 
pensive  attire  which  those  English  women  wore. 
Wherever  one  met  them,  at  dinner,///*,  or  ball, 
they  were  always  the  most  simply  dressed  women 
in  the  room.  I  wonder  if  it  ever  occurred  to  any 
of  their  gorgeously  attired  hostesses,  that  it  was 
because  their  trans-atlantic  guests  were  so  sure 
of  their  position,  that  they  contented  themselves 
with  such  simple  toilets  knowing  that  nothing 
they  might  wear  could  either  improve  or  alter  their 
standing. 

In  former  ages,  sumptuary  laws  were  enadted 
by  parental  governments,  in  the  hope  of  sup 
pressing  extravagance  in  dress,  the  state  of  affairs 

[26] 


The  OUTE^  and  the  INNE^ 

we  deplore  now,  not  being  a  new  development 
of  human  weakness,  but  as  old  as  wealth. 

The  desire  to  shine  by  the  splendor  of  one's 
trappings  is  the  first  idea  of  the  parvenu,  es 
pecially  here  in  this  country,  where  the  ambi 
tious  are  denied  the  pleasure  of  acquiring  a  title, 
and  where  official  rank  carries  with  it  so  little 
social  weight.  Few  more  striking  ways  present 
themselves  to  the  crude  and  half-educated  for 
the  expenditure  of  a  new  fortune  than  the  pur 
chase  of  sumptuous  apparel,  the  satisfaction  be 
ing  immediate  and  material.  The  wearer  of  a 
complete  and  perfect  toilet  must  experience  a  de 
light  of  which  the  uninitiated  know  nothing,  for 
such  cruel  sacrifices  are  made  and  so  many  pri 
vations  endured  to  procure  this  satisfaction. 
When  I  see  groups  of  women,  clad  in  the  latest 
designs  of  purple  and  fine  linen,  stand  shivering 
on  street  corners  of  a  winter  night,  until  they  can 
crowd  into  a  car,  I  doubt  if  the  joy  they  get 
from  their  clothes,  compensates  them  for  the 
creature  comforts  they  are  forced  to  forego,  and 
I  wonder  if  it  never  occurs  to  them  to  spend  less 
on  their  wardrobes  and  so  feel  they  can  afford 
to  return  from  a  theatre  or  concert  comfortably, 
in  a  cab,  as  a  foreign  woman,  with  their  income 
would  do. 

There  is  a  stoical  determination  about  the 
American  point  of  view  that  compels  a  certain 
amount  of  respect.  Our  countrywomen  will  deny 
themselves  pleasures,  will  economize  on  their  food 

[*?] 


fcf 


and  will  remain  in  town  during  the  summer,  but 
when  walking  abroad  they  must  be  clad  in  the 
best,  so  that  no  one  may  know  by  their  appear 
ance  if  the  income  be  counted  by  hundreds  or 
thousands. 

While  these  standards  prevail  and  the  female 
mind  is  fbced  on  this  subject  with  such  dire  in 
tent,  it  is  not  astonishing  that  a  weaker  sister  is 
occasionally  tempted  beyond  her  powers  of  re 
sistance.  Nor  that  each  day  a  new  case  of  a  well- 
dressed  woman  thieving  in  a  shop  reaches  our  ears. 
The  poor  feeble-minded  creature  is  not  to  blame. 
She  is  but  the  reflexion  of  the  minds  around 
her  and  is  probably  like  the  lady  Emerson  tells 
of,  who  confessed  to  him  "that  the  sense  of  being 
perfectly  well-dressed  had  given  her  a  feeling  of 
inward  tranquillity  which  religion  was  powerless 
to  bestow." 


[*«] 


N°-  5 

On  Some  Gilded  Misalliances 


A  DEAR  old  American  lady,  who  lived 
the  greater  part  of  her  life  in  Rome, 
and  received  every  body  worth  knowing 
in  her  spacious  drawing-rooms,  far  up  in  the  dim 
vastnesses  of  a  Roman  palace,  used  to  say  that 
she  had  only  known  one  really  happy  marriage 
made  by  an  American  girl  abroad. 

In  those  days,  being  young  and  innocent,  I 
considered  that  remark  cynical,  and  in  my  heart 
thought  nothing  could  be  more  romantic  and 
charming  than  for  a  fair  compatriot  to  assume 
an  historic  title  and  retire  to  her  husband's  estates, 
and  rule  smilingly  over  him  and  a  devoted  ten 
antry,  as  in  the  last  act  of  a  comic  opera,  when  a 
rose-colored  light  is  burning  and  the  orchestra 
plays  the  last  brilliant  chords  of  awedding  march. 
There  seemed  to  my  perverted  sense  a  certain 
poetic  justice  about  the  fact  that  money,  gained 
honestly  but  prosaically , in  groceries  or  gas,  should 
go  to  regild  an  ancient  blazon  or  prop  up  the 
crumbling  walls  of  some  stately  palace  abroad. 
Many  thoughtful  years  and  many  cruel  reali 
ties  have  taught  me  that  my  gracious  hostess  of 
the  "seventies"  was  right,  and  that  marriage 
under  these  conditions  is  apt  to  be  much  more 
like  the  comic  opera  after  the  curtain  has  been 
rung  down,  when  the  lights  are  out,  the  applaud- 


ing  public  gone  home,  and  the  weary  adors 
brought  slowly  back  to  the  present  and  the  pos 
itive,  are  wondering  how  they  are  to  pay  their 
rent  or  dodge  the  warrant  in  ambush  around  the 
corner. 

International  marriages  usually  come  about 
from  a  deficient  knowledge  of  the  world.  The 
father  becomes  rich,  the  family  travel  abroad, 
some  mutual  friend  (often  from  purely  interested 
motives)  produces  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  the 
daughter,  in  the  shape  of  a  "prince"  with  a  title 
that  makes  the  whole  simple  American  family 
quiver  with  delight. 

After  a  few  visits  the  suitor  declares  himself; 
the  girl  is  flattered,  the  father  loses  his  head,  seeing 
visions  of  his  loved  daughter  hob-nobbing  with 
royalty,  and  (intoxicating  thought!)  snubbing 
the  "swells"  at  home  who  had  shown  reluctance 
to  recognize  him  and  his  family. 

It  is  next  to  impossible  for  him  to  get  any 
reliable  information  about  his  future  son-in-law 
in  a  country  where,  as  an  American,  he  has  few 
social  relations,  belongs  to  no  club,  and  whose 
idiom  is  a  sealed  book  to  him.  Every  circum 
stance  conspires  to  keep  the  flaws  on  the  article 
for  sale  out  of  sight  and  place  the  suitor  in  an 
advantageous  light.  Several  weeks'  "courting" 
follows,  paterfamilias  agrees  to  part  with  a  hand 
some  share  of  his  earnings,  and  a  marriage  is 
"arranged." 

In  the  case  where  the  girl  has  retained  some 

[30] 


ON  SOME   qiLDED   MISALLIANCES 

of  her  self-respect  the  suitor  is  made  to  come  to 
her  country  for  the  ceremony.  And,  that  the 
contrast  between  European  ways  and  our  simple 
habits  may  not  be  too  striking,  an  establishment 
is  hastily  got  together,  with  hired  liveries  and 
new-bought  carriages,  as  in  a  recent  case  in  this 
state.  The  sensational  papers  write  up  this  "in 
ternational  union, "and  publish  "faked  "portraits 
of  the  bride  and  her  noble  spouse.  The  sovereign 
of  the  groom's  country  (enchanted  that  some 
more  American  money  is  to  be  imported  into 
his  land)  sends  an  economical  present  and  an 
autograph  letter.  The  act  ends.  Limelight  and 
slow  music! 

In  a  few  years  rumors  of  dissent  and  trouble 
float  vaguely  back  to  the  girl's  family.  Finally, 
either  a  great  scandal  occurs,  and  there  is  one 
dishonored  home  the  more  in  the  world,  or  an 
expatriated  woman,  thousands  of  miles  from  the 
friends  and  relatives  who  might  be  of  some  com 
fort  to  her,  makes  up  her  mind  to  accept  "any 
thing"  for  the  sake  of  her  children,  and  attempts 
to  build  up  some  sort  of  an  existence  out  of  the 
remains  of  her  lost  illusions,  and  the  father  wakes 
up  from  his  dream  to  realize  that  his  wealth  has 
only  served  to  ruin  what  he  loved  best  in  all  the 
world. 

Sometimes  the  conditions  are  delightfully 
comic,  as  in  a  well-known  case,  where  the  daugh 
ter,  who  married  into  an  indolent,  happy-go- 
lucky  Italian  family,  had  inherited  her  father's 

[31  ] 


business  push  and  energy  along  with  his  fortune, 
and  immediately  set  about  "running"  her  hus 
band's  estate  as  she  had  seen  her  father  do  his 
bank.  She  tried  to  revive  a  half-forgotten  indus 
try  in  the  district,  scraped  and  whitewashed  their 
picturesque  old  villa,  proposed  her  husband's 
entering  business,  and  in  short  dashed  head 
down  against  all  his  inherited  traditions  and  na 
tional  prejudices,  until  her  new  family  loathed 
the  sight  of  the  brisk  American  face,  and  the 
poor  she  had  tried  to  help,  sulked  in  their  newly 
drained  houses  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 
Her  ways  were  not  Italian  ways,  and  she  seemed 
to  the  nun-like  Italian  ladies,  almost  unsexed, 
as  she  tramped  about  the  fields,  talking  artificial 
manure  and  subsoil  drainage  with  the  men.  Yet 
neither  she  nor  her  husband  was  to  blame.  The 
young  Italian  had  but  followed  the  teachings  of 
his  family,  which  decreed  that  the  only  honor 
able  way  for  an  aristocrat  to  acquire  wealth  was 
to  marry  it.  The  American  wife  honestly  tried 
to  do  her  duty  in  this  new  position,  naively 
thinking  she  could  engraft  transatlantic  "go" 
upon  the  indolent  Italian  character.  Her  work 
was  in  vain;  she  made  herself  and  her  husband 
so  unpopular  that  they  are  now  living  in  this 
country,  regretting  too  late  the  error  of  their 
ways. 

Another  case  but  little  less  laughable,  is  that 
of  a  Boston  girl  with  a  neat  little  fortune  of  her 
own,  who,  when  married  to  the  young  Viennese 


ON  SOME   QILDED   MISALLIANCES 

of  her  choice,  found  that  he  expected  her  to 
live  with  his  family  on  the  third  floor  of  their 
"palace"  (the  two  lower  floors  being  rented  to 
foreigners),  and  as  there  was  hardly  enough 
money  for  a  box  at  the  opera,  she  was  not  ex 
pected  to  go,  whereas  his  position  made  it  neces 
sary  for  him  to  have  a  stall  and  appear  there 
nightly  among  the  men  of  his  rank,  the  aston 
ished  and  disillusioned  Bostonian  remaining  at 
home  en  tete-a-tete  with  the  women  of  his  family, 
who  seemed  to  think  this  the  most  natural  ar 
rangement  in  the  world. 

It  certainly  is  astonishing  that  we,  the  most 
patriotic  of  nations,  with  such  high  opinion  of 
ourselves  and  our  institutions,  should  be  so  ready 
to  hand  over  our  daughters  and  our  ducats  to  the 
first  foreigner  who  asks  for  them,  often  requir 
ing  less  information  about  him  than  we  should 
consider  necessary  before  buying  a  horse  or  a 
dog. 

Women  of  no  other  nation  have  this  mania 
for  espousing  aliens.  Nowhere  else  would  a  girl 
with  a  large  fortune  dream  of  marrying  out  of 
her  country.  Her  highest  ideal  of  a  husband 
would  be  a  man  of  her  own  kin.  It  is  the  rarest 
thing  in  the  world  to  find  a  well-born  French, 
Spanish,  or  Italian  woman  married  to  a  foreigner 
and  living  away  from  her  country.  How  can  a 
woman  expect  to  be  happy  separated  from  all 
the  ties  and  traditions  of  her  youth?  If  she  is 
taken  abroad  young,  she  may  still  hope  to  re- 

[33  ] 


fef 


place  her  friends  as  is  often  done.  But  the  real 
reason  of  unhappiness  (greater  and  deeper  than 
this)  lies  in  the  fundamental  difference  of  the 
whole  social  structure  between  our  country  and 
that  of  her  adoption,  and  the  radically  different 
way  of  looking  at  every  side  of  life. 

Surely  a  girl  must  feel  that  a  man  who  allows 
a  marriage  to  be  arranged  for  him  (and  only 
signs  the  contract  because  its  pecuniary  clauses 
are  to  his  satisfaction,  and  who  would  withdraw 
in  a  moment  if  these  were  suppressed),  must 
have  an  entirely  different  point  of  view  from  her 
own  on  all  the  vital  issues  of  life. 

Foreigners  undoubtedly  make  excellent  hus 
bands  for  their  own  women.  But  they  are,  ex 
cept  in  rare  cases,  unsatisfactory  helpmeets  for 
American  girls.  It  is  impossible  to  touch  on 
more  than  a  side  or  two  of  this  subject.  But  as 
an  illustration  the  following  contrasted  stories 
may  be  cited: 

Two  sisters  of  an  aristocratic  American  family, 
each  with  an  income  of  over  forty  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  recently  married  French  noble 
men.  They  naturally  expected  to  continue  abroad 
the  life  they  had  led  at  home,  in  which  opera 
boxes,  saddle  horses,  and  constant  entertaining 
were  matters  of  course.  In  both  cases,  our  com 
patriots  discovered  that  their  husbands  (neither 
of  them  penniless)  had  entirely  different  views. 
In  the  first  place,  they  were  told  that  it  was 
considered  "bad  form"  in  France  for  young 

[34] 


ON  SOME   QILDED   MISALLIANCES 

married  women  to  entertain ;  besides,  the  money 
was  needed  for  improvements,  and  in  many 
other  ways,  and  as  every  well-to-do  French 
family  puts  aside  at  least  a  third  of  its  income 
as  dots  for  the  children  (boys  as  well  as  girls), 
these  brides  found  themselves  cramped  for 
money  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  and 
obliged,  during  their  one  month  a  year  in  Paris, 
to  put  up  with  hired  traps,  and  depend  on  their 
friends  for  evenings  at  the  opera. 

This  story  is  a  telling  set-off  to  the  case  of  an 
American  wife,  who  one  day  received  a  wind 
fall  in  the  form  of  a  check  for  a  tidy  amount. 
She  immediately  proposed  a  trip  abroad  to  her 
husband,  but  found  that  he  preferred  to  remain 
at  home  in  the  society  of  his  horses  and  dogs. 
So  our  fair  compatriot  starts  off  (with  his  full 
consent),  has  her  outing,  spends  her  little  "pile," 
and  returns  after  three  or  four  months  to  the 
home  of  her  delighted  spouse. 

Do  these  two  stories  need  any  comment?  Let 
our  sisters  and  their  friends  think  twice  before 
they  make  themselves  irrevocably  wheels  in  a 
machine  whose  working  is  unknown  to  them, 
lest  they  be  torn  to  pieces  as  it  moves.  Having 
the  good  luck  to  be  born  in  the  "  paradise  of  wo 
men,"  let  them  beware  how  they  leave  it,  charm 
the  serpent  never  so  wisely,  for  they  may  find 
themselves,  like  the  Peri,  outside  the  gate. 


[35] 


N°-  6 

The  Complacency  of 

Mediocrity 

FULL  as  small  intellects  are  of  queer  kinks, 
unexplained    turnings    and    groundless 
likes  and   dislikes,  the   bland  content 
ment  that  buoys  up  the  incompetent  is  the  most 
difficult  of  all  vagaries  to  account  for.  Rarely  do 
twenty-four  hours  pass  without  examples  of  this 
exasperating  weakness  appearing  on  the  surface 
of  those  shallows  that  commonplace  people  so 
naively  call  "their  minds." 

What  one  would  expect  is  extreme  modesty, 
in  the  half-educated  or  the  ignorant,  and  self- 
approbation  higher  up  in  the  scale,  where  it 
might  more  reasonably  dwell.  Experience,  how 
ever,  teaches  that  exactly  the  opposite  is  the 
case  among  those  who  have  achieved  success. 

The  accidents  of  a  life  turned  by  chance  out  of 
the  beaten  tracks,  have  thrown  me  at  times  into 
acquaintanceship  with  some  of  the  greater  lights 
of  the  last  thirty  years.  And  not  only  have  they 
been,  as  a  rule,  most  unassuming  men  and  wo 
men;  but  in  the  majority  of  cases  positively 
self-depreciatory;  doubting  of  themselves  and 
their  talents,  constantly  aiming  at  greater  per 
fection  in  their  art  or  a  higher  development  of 
their  powers,  never  contented  with  what  they 
have  achieved,  beyond  the  idea  that  it  has  been 

[36] 


THE  COMPLACENCY  OF  MEDIOCRITY 

another  step  toward  their  goal.  Knowing  this, 
it  is  always  a  shock  on  meeting  the  mediocre 
people  who  form  such  a  discouraging  majority 
in  any  society,  to  discover  that  they  are  all  so 
pleased  with  themselves,  their  achievements, 
their  place  in  the  world,  and  their  own  ability 
and  discernment! 

Who  has  not  sat  chafing  in  silence  while  Me 
diocrity,  in  a  white  waistcoat  and  jangling  fobs, 
occupied  the  after-dinner  hour  in  imparting  sec 
ond-hand  information  as  his  personal  views  on 
literature  and  art?  Can  you  not  hear  him  saying 
once  again :  "  I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything 
about  art  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know, 
but  when  I  go  to  an  exhibition  I  can  always  pick 
out  the  best  pictures  at  a  glance.  Sort  of  a  way 
I  have,  and  I  never  make  mistakes,  you  know." 

Then  go  and  watch,  as  I  have,  Henri  Roche- 
fort  as  he  laboriously  forms  the  opinions  that 
are  to  appear  later  in  one  of  his  "Salons"  realiz 
ing  the  while  that  he  isfacikprinceps  among  the 
art  critics  of  his  day,  that  with  a  line  he  can  make 
or  mar  a  reputation  and  by  a  word  draw  the  ad 
miring  crowd  around  an  unknown  canvas.  While 
Rochefort  toils  and  ponders  and  hesitates,  do 
you  suppose  a  doubt  as  to  his  own  astuteness 
ever  dims  the  self-complacency  of  White  Waist 
coat?  Never! 

There  lies  the  strength  of  the  feeble-minded. 
By  a  special  dispensation  of  Providence,  they 
can  never  see  but  one  side  of  a  subject,  so  are 

[37] 


<BYW<AYS 


always  convinced  that  they  are  right,  and  from 
the  height  of  their  contentment,  look  down  on 
those  who  chance  to  differ  with  them. 

A  lady  who  has  gathered  into  her  dainty  sa 
lons  the  fruit  of  many  years'  careful  study  and 
tireless  "weeding"  will  ask  anxiously  if  you  are 
quite  sure  you  like  the  effect  of  her  latest  acqui 
sition  —  some  eighteenth-century  statuette  or 
screen  (flotsam,  probably,  from  the  great  ship 
wreck  of  Versailles),  and  listen  earnestly  to  your 
verdict.  The  good  soul  who  has  just  furnished 
her  house  by  contract,  with  the  latest  "Louis 
Fourteenth  Street"  productions,  conducts  you 
complacently  through  her  chambers  of  horrors, 
wreathed  in  tranquil  smiles,  born  of  ignorance 
and  that  smug  assurance  granted  only  to  the  — 
small. 

When  a  small  intellect  goes  in  for  cultivating 
itself  and  improving  its  mind,  you  realize  what 
the  poet  meant  in  asserting  that  a  little  learning 
was  a  dangerous  thing.  For  Mediocrity  is  apt, 
when  it  dines  out,  to  get  up  a  subject  before 
hand,  and  announce  to  an  astonished  circle,  as 
quite  new  and  personal  discoveries,  that  the 
Renaissance  was  introduced  into  France  from 
Italy,  or  that  Columbus  in  his  day  made  im 
portant  "  finds." 

When  the  incompetent  advance  another  step 
and  write  or  paint  —  which,  alas!  is  only  too  fre 
quent  —  the  world  of  art  and  literature  is  flooded 
with  their  productions.  When  White  Waistcoat, 

[38] 


THE  COMPLACENCY  OF  MEDIOCRITT 

for  example,  takes  to  painting,  late  in  life,  and 
comes  to  you,  canvas  in  hand,  for  criticism  (read 
praise),  he  is  apt  to  remark  modestly: 

"Corot  never  painted  until  he  was  fifty,  and 
I  am  only  forty-eight.  So  I  feel  I  should  not 
let  myself  be  discouraged." 

The  problem  of  life  is  said  to  be  the  finding 
of  a  happiness  that  is  not  enjoyed  at  the  ex 
pense  of  others,  and  surely  this  class  have  solved 
that  Sphinx's  riddle,  for  they  float  through  their 
days  in  a  dream  of  complacency  disturbed  neither 
by  corroding  doubt  nor  harassed  by  jealousies. 

Whole  families  of  feeble-minded  people,  on 
the  strength  of  an  ancestor  who  achieved  dis 
tinction  a  hundred  years  ago,  live  in  constant 
thanksgiving  that  they  "are  not  as  other  men." 
None  of  the  great  man's  descendants  have  done 
anything  to  be  particularly  proud  of  since  their 
remote  progenitor  signed  the  Declaration  of  In 
dependence  or  governed  a  colony.  They  have 
vegetated  in  small  provincial  cities  and  inter 
married  into  other  equally  fortunate  families, 
but  the  sense  of  superiority  is  ever  present  to 
sustain  them,  under  straitened  circumstances 
and  diminishing  prestige.  The  world  may  move 
on  around  them,  but  they  never  advance.  Why 
should  they?  They  have  reached  perfection.  The 
brains  and  enterprise  that  have  revolutionized 
our  age  knock  in  vain  at  their  doors.  They  be 
long  to  that  vast  "majority  that  is  always  in  the 
wrong,"  being  so  pleased  with  themselves,  their 

[39] 


WORLDLY 


ways,  and  their  feeble  little  lines  of  thought, 
that  any  change  or  advancement  gives  their  sys 
tem  a  shock. 

A  painter  I  know,  was  once  importuned  for 
a  sketch  by  a  lady  of  this  class.  After  many  de 
lays  and  renewed  demands  he  presented  her  one 
day,  when  she  and  some  friends  were  visiting  his 
studio,  with  a  delightful  open-air  study  simply 
framed.  She  seemed  confused  at  the  offering,  to 
his  astonishment,  as  she  had  not  lacked  aplomb 
in  asking  for  the  sketch.  After  much  blushing 
and  fumbling  she  succeeded  in  getting  the  paint 
ing  loose,  and  handing  back  the  frame,  remarked: 

"I  will  take  the  painting,  but  you  must  keep 
the  frame.  My  husband  would  never  allow  me 
to  accept  anything  of  value  from  you!"  —  and 
smiled  on  the  speechless  painter,  doubtless 
charmed  with  her  own  tact. 

Complacent  people  are  the  same  drag  on  a 
society  that  a  brake  would  be  to  a  coach  going 
up  hill.  They  are  the  "eternal  negative"  and 
would  extinguish,  if  they  could,  any  light  stronger 
than  that  to  which  their  weak  eyes  have  been 
accustomed.  They  look  with  astonishment  and 
distrust  at  any  one  trying  to  break  away  from 
their  tiresome  old  ways  and  habits,  and  wonder 
why  all  the  world  is  not  as  pleased  with  their 
personalities  as  they  are  themselves,  suggesting, 
if  you  are  willing  to  waste  your  time  listening  to 
their  twaddle,  that  there  is  something  radically 
wrong  in  any  innovation,  that  both  "Church  and 

[40] 


THE  COMPLACENCY  OF  MEDIOCRITT 

State"  will  be  imperilled  if  things  are  altered. 
No  blight,  no  mildew  is  more  fatal  to  a  plant 
than  the  "complacent"  are  to  the  world.  They 
resent  any  progress  and  are  offended  if  you  men 
tion  before  them  any  new  standards  or  points  of 
view.  "What  has  been  good  enough  for  us  and 
our  parents  should  certainly  be  satisfactory  to  the 
younger  generations."  It  seems  to  the  contented 
like  pure  presumption  on  the  part  of  their  ac 
quaintances  to  wander  after  strange  gods,  in  the 
shape  of  new  ideals,  higher  standards  of  culture, 
or  a  perfected  refinement  of  surroundings. 

We  are  perhaps  wrong  to  pity  complacent 
people.  It  is  for  another  class  our  sympathy 
should  be  kept;  for  those  who  cannot  refrain 
from  doubting  of  themselves  and  the  value  of 
their  work — those  unfortunate  gifted  and  artis 
tic  spirits  who  descend  too  often  the  via  dolorosa 
of  discontent  and  despair,  who  have  a  higher 
ideal  than  their  neighbors,  and,  in  struggling 
after  an  unattainable  perfection,  fall  by  the  way 
side. 


The  Discontent  of  Talent 


THE  complacency  that  buoys  up  self- 
sufficient  souls,  soothing  them  with 
the  illusion  that  they  themselves,  their 
towns,  country,  language,  and  habits  are  above 
improvement,  causing  them  to  shudder,  as  at  a 
sacrilege,  if  any  changes  are  suggested,  is  fortu 
nately  limited  to  a  class  of  stay-at-home  nonen 
tities.  In  proportion  as  it  is  common  among 
them,  is  it  rare  or  delightfully  absent  in  any 
society  of  gifted  or  imaginative  people. 

Among  our  globe-trotting  compatriots  this 
defect  is  much  less  general  than  in  the  older 
nations  of  the  world,  for  the  excellent  reason, 
that  the  moment  a  man  travels  or  takes  the 
trouble  to  know  people  of  different  nationali 
ties,  his  armor  of  complacency  receives  so  severe 
a  blow,  that  it  is  shattered  forever,  the  wanderer 
returning  home  wiser  and  much  more  mod 
est.  There  seems  to  be  something  fatal  to  con 
ceit  in  the  air  of  great  centres;  professionally 
or  in  general  society  a  man  so  soon  finds  his 
level. 

The  "great  world"  may  foster  other  faults; 
human  nature  is  sure  to  develop  some  in  every 
walk  of  life.  Smug  contentment,  however,  dis 
appears  in  its  rarefied  atmosphere,  giving  place 
to  a  craving  for  improvement,  a  nervous  alert- 

[4*  ] 


THE    DISCONTENT  OF  TALENT 

ness  that  keeps  the  mind  from  stagnating  and 
urges  it  on  to  do  its  best. 

It  is  never  the  beautiful  woman  who  sits 
down  in  smiling  serenity  before  her  mirror. 
She  is  tireless  in  her  efforts  to  enhance  her 
beauty  and  set  it  off  to  the  best  advantage. 
Her  figure  is  never  slender  enough,  nor  her 
carriage  sufficiently  erect  to  satisfy.  But  the 
"frump"  will  let  herself  and  all  her  surround 
ings  go  to  seed,  not  from  humbleness  of  mind 
or  an  overwhelming  sense  of  her  own  unworthi- 
ness,  but  in  pure  complacent  conceit. 

A  criticism  to  which  the  highly  gifted  lay  them 
selves  open  from  those  who  do  not  understand 
them,  is  their  love  of  praise,  the  critics  failing 
to  grasp  the  facT;  that  this  passion  for  measur 
ing  one's  self  with  others,  like  the  gad-fly  pur 
suing  poor  lo,  never  allows  a  moment's  repose 
in  the  green  pastures  of  success,  but  goads  them 
constantly  up  the  rocky  sides  of  endeavor.  It 
is  not  that  they  love  flattery,  but  that  they  need 
approbation  as  a  counterpoise  to  the  dark  mo 
ments  of  self-abasement  and  as  a  sustaining  aid 
for  higher  flights. 

Many  years  ago  I  was  present  at  a  final  sitting 
which  my  master,  Carolus  Duran,  gave  to  one  of 
my  fair  compatriots.  He  knew  that  the  lady  was 
leaving  Paris  on  the  morrow,  and  that  in  an 
hour,  her  husband  and  his  friends  were  coming 
to  see  and  criticise  the  portrait — always  a  ter 
rible  ordeal  for  an  artist. 

[43] 


fcf 


To  any  one  familiar  with  this  painter's  moods, 
it  was  evident  that  the  result  of  the  sitting  was 
not  entirely  satisfactory.  The  quick  breathing, 
the  impatient  tapping  movement  of  the  foot, 
the  swift  backward  springs  to  obtain  a  better 
view,  so  characteristic  of  him  in  moments  of 
doubt,  and  which  had  twenty  years  before  earned 
him  the  name  of  le  danseur  from  his  fellow-copy 
ists  at  the  Louvre,  betrayed  to  even  a  casual  ob 
server  that  his  discouragement  and  discontent 
were  at  boiling  point. 

The  sound  of  a  bell  and  a  murmur  of  voices 
announced  the  entrance  of  the  visitors  into  the 
vast  studio.  After  the  formalities  of  introduc 
tion  had  been  accomplished  the  new-comers 
glanced  at  the  portrait,  but  uttered  never  a 
word.  From  it  they  passed  in  a  perfectly  casual 
manner  to  an  inspection  of  the  beautiful  con 
tents  of  the  room,  investigating  the  tapestries, 
admiring  the  armor,  and  finally,  after  another 
glance  at  the  portrait,  the  husband  remarked: 
"You  have  given  my  wife  a  jolly  long  neck, 
haven't  you?"  and,  turning  to  his  friends,  be 
gan  laughing  and  chatting  in  English. 

If  vitriol  had  been  thrown  on  my  poor  mas 
ter's  quivering  frame,  the  effect  could  not  have 
been  more  instantaneous,  his  ignorance  of  the 
language  spoken  doubtless  exaggerating  his  im 
pression  of  being  ridiculed.  Suddenly  he  turned 
very  white,  and  before  any  of  us  had  divined  his 
intention  he  had  seized  a  Japanese  sword  lying 

[44] 


THE    'DISCONTENT  OF  TALENT 

by  and  cut  a  dozen  gashes  across  the  canvas. 
Then,  dropping  his  weapon,  he  flung  out  of 
the  room,  leaving  his  sitter  and  her  friends  in 
speechless  consternation,  to  wonder  then  and 
ever  after  in  what  way  they  had  offended  him. 
In  their  opinions,  if  a  man  had  talent  and  un 
derstood  his  business,  he  should  produce  por 
traits  with  the  same  ease  that  he  would  answer 
dinner  invitations,  and  if  they  paid  for,  they  were 
in  no  way  bound  also  to  praise,  his  work.  They 
were  entirely  pleased  with  the  result,  but  did 
not  consider  it  necessary  to  tell  him  so,  no  idea 
having  crossed  their  minds  that  he  might  be  in 
one  of  those  moods  so  frequent  with  artistic  na> 
tures,  when  words  of  approbation  and  praise  are 
as  necessary  to  them,  as  the  air  we  breathe  is  to 
us,  mortals  of  a  commoner  clay. 

Even  in  the  theatrical  and  operatic  professions, 
those  hotbeds  of  conceit,  you  will  generally  find 
among  the  "stars"  abysmal  depths  of  discour 
agement  and  despair.  One  great  tenor,  who  has 
delighted  New  York  audiences  during  several 
winters  past,  invariably  announces  to  his  inti 
mates  on  arising  that  his  "voice  has  gone,"  and 
that,  in  consequence  he  will  "never  sing  again," 
and  has  to  be  caressed  and  cajoled  back  into 
some  semblance  of  confidence  before  attempting 
a  performance.  This  same  artist,  with  an  almost 
limitless  repertoire  and  a  reputation  no  new  suc 
cesses  could  enhance,  recently  risked  all  to  sing 
what  he  considered  a  higher  class  of  music,  in- 

[45] 


iv<Ars  e* 


finitely  more  fatiguing  to  his  voice,  because  he 
was  impelled  onward  by  the  ideal  that  forces  ge 
nius  to  constant  improvement  and  development 
of  its  powers. 

What  the  people  who  meet  these  artists  oc 
casionally  at  a  private  concert  or  behind  the 
scenes  during  the  intense  strain  of  a  representa 
tion,  take  too  readily  for  monumental  egoism 
and  conceit,  is,  the  greater  part  of  the  time, 
merely  the  desire  for  a  sustaining  word,  a  longing 
for  the  stimulant  of  praise. 

All  actors  and  singers  are  but  big  children, 
and  must  be  humored  and  petted  like  children 
when  you  wish  them  to  do  their  best.  It  is  neces 
sary  for  them  to  feel  in  touch  with  their  au 
diences;  to  be  assured  that  they  are  not  falling 
below  the  high  ideals  formed  for  their  work. 

Some  winters  ago  a  performance  at  the  opera 
nearly  came  to  a  standstill  because  an  all-con 
quering  soprano  was  found  crying  in  her  dress 
ing-room.  After  many  weary  moments  of  conso 
lation  and  questioning,  it  came  out  that  she  felt 
quite  sure  she  no  longer  had  any  talent.  One  of 
the  other  singers  had  laughed  at  her  voice,  and 
in  consequence  there  was  nothing  left  to  live 
for.  A  half-hour  later,  owing  to  judicious  "treat 
ment,"  she  was  singing  gloriously  and  bowing 
her  thanks  to  thunders  of  applause. 

Rather  than  blame  this  divine  discontent  that 
has  made  man  what  he  is  to-day,  let  us  glorify 
and  envy  it,  pitying  the  while  the  frail  mortal 

[46] 


THE    ^DISCONTENT  OF  TALENT 

vessels  it  consumes  with  its  flame.  No  adulation 
can  turn  such  natures  from  their  goal,  and  in 
the  hour  of  triumph  the  slave  is  always  at  their 
side  to  whisper  the  word  of  warning.  This  dis 
content  is  the  leaven  that  has  raised  the  whole 
loaf  of  dull  humanity  to  better  things  and  higher 
efforts,  those  privileged  to  feel  it  are  the  suns  that 
illuminate  our  system.  If  on  these  luminaries  ob 
servers  have  discovered  spots,  it  is  well  to  re 
member  that  these  blemishes  are  but  the  defects 
of  their  qualities,  and  better  far  than  the  total 
eclipse  that  shrouds  so  large  a  part  of  humanity 
in  colorless  complacency. 

It  will  never  be  known  how  many  master 
pieces  have  been  lost  to  the  world  because  at 
the  critical  moment  a  friend  has  not  been  at 
hand  with  the  stimulant  of  sympathy  and  encour 
agement  needed  by  an  overworked,  straining  ar 
tist  who  was  beginning  to  lose  confidence  in  him 
self;  to  soothe  his  irritated  nerves  with  the  balm 
of  praise,  and  take  his  poor  aching  head  on  a 
friendly  shoulder  and  let  him  sob  out  there  all 
his  doubt  and  discouragement. 

So  let  us  not  be  niggardly  or  ungenerous  in 
meting  out  to  struggling  fellow-beings  their 
share,  and  perchance  a  little  more  than  their 
share  of  approbation  and  applause,  poor  enough 
return,  after  all,  for  the  pleasure  their  labors  have 
procured  us.  What  adequate  compensation  can 
we  mete  out  to  an  author  for  the  hours  of  de 
light  and  self-forgetfulness  his  talent  has  brought 

[47] 


to  us  in  moments  of  loneliness,  illness,  or  grief? 
What  can  pay  our  debt  to  a  painter  who  has  fixed 
on  canvas  the  face  we  love? 

The  little  return  that  it  is  in  our  power  to 
make  for  all  the  joy  these  gifted  fellow-beings 
bring  into  our  lives  is  (closing  our  eyes  to  minor 
imperfections)  to  warmly  applaud  them  as  they 
move  upward,  along  their  stony  path. 


[48] 


N°-  8 

Slouch 


I  SHOULD  like  to  see,  in  every  school 
room  of  our  growing  country,  in  every 
business  office,  at  the  railway  stations,  and 
on  street  corners,   large  placards  placed  with 
"Do  not  slouch"  printed  thereon  in  distinct 
and  imposing  characters.  If  ever  there  was  a 
tendency  that  needed  nipping  in  the  bud  (I 
fear  the  bud  is  fast  becoming  a  full-blown  flower), 
it  is  this  discouraging  national  failing. 

Each  year  when  I  return  from  my  spring 
wanderings,  among  the  benighted  and  effete 
nations  of  the  Old  World,  on  whom  the  untrav- 
elled  American  looks  down  from  the  height  of 
his  superiority,  I  am  struck  anew  by  the  contrast 
between  the  trim,  well-groomed  officials  left  be 
hind  on  one  side  of  the  ocean  and  the  happy- 
go-lucky,  slouching  individuals  I  find  on  the 
other. 

As  I  ride  up  town  this  unpleasant  impression 
deepens.  In  the  "little  Mother  Isle"  I  have 
just  left,  bus-drivers  have  quite  a  coaching  air, 
with  hat  and  coat  of  knowing  form.  They  sport 
flowers  in  their  button-holes  and  salute  other 
bus-drivers,  when  they  meet,  with  a  twist  of 
whip  and  elbow  refreshingly  correct,  showing 
that  they  take  pride  in  their  calling,  and  have 
been  at  some  pains  to  turn  themselves  out  as 

[49] 


smart  in  appearance  as  finances  would  allow. 

Here,  on  the  contrary,  the  stage  and  cab 
drivers  I  meet  seem  to  be  under  a  blight,  and  to 
have  lost  all  interest  in  life.  They  lounge  on  the 
box,  their  legs  straggling  aimlessly,  one  hand 
holding  the  reins,  the  other  hanging  dejectedly 
by  the  side.  Yet  there  is  little  doubt  that  these 
heartbroken  citizens  are  earning  double  what 
their  London  confreres  gain.  The  shadow  of 
the  national  peculiarity  is  over  them. 

When  I  get  to  my  rooms,  the  elevator  boy 
is  reclining  in  the  lift,  and  hardly  raises  his 
eye-lids  as  he  languidly  manoeuvres  the  rope. 
I  have  seen  that  boy  now  for  months,  but  never 
when  his  boots  and  clothes  were  brushed  orwhen 
his  cravat  was  not  riding  proudly  above  his  col 
lar.  On  occasions  I  have  offered  him  pins,  which 
he  took  wearily,  doubtless  because  it  was  less 
trouble  than  to  refuse.  The  next  day,  however, 
his  cravat  again  rode  triumphant,  mocking  my 
efforts  to  keep  it  in  its  place.  His  hair,  too,  has 
been  a  cause  of  wonder  to  me.  How  does  he 
manage  to  have  it  always  so  long  and  so  un 
kempt?  More  than  once,  when  expecting  callers, 
I  have  bribed  him  to  have  it  cut,  but  it  seemed 
to  grow  in  the  night,  back  to  its  poetic  profu 
sion. 

In  what  does  this  noble  disregard  for  appear 
ances  which  characterizes  American  men  origi 
nate?  Our  climate,  as  some  suggest,  or  discour 
agement  at  not  all  being  millionaires?  It  more 

[5°] 


SLOUCH 

likely  comes  from  an  absence  with  us  of  the  mil 
itary  training  that  abroad  goes  so  far  toward 
licking  young  men  into  shape. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  surprise  on  the  face 
of  a  French  statesman  to  whom  I  once  ex 
pressed  my  sympathy  for  his  country,  laboring 
under  the  burden  of  so  vast  a  standing  army. 
He  answered: 

"The  financial  burden  is  doubtless  great;  but 
you  have  others.  Witness  your  pension  expen 
ditures.  With  us  the  money  drawn  from  the  peo 
ple  is  used  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  of  inestimable 
value  to  them.  We  take  the  young  hobbledehoy 
farm-hand  or  mechanic,  ignorant,  mannerless, 
uncleanly  as  he  may  be,  and  turn  him  out  at 
the  end  of  three  years  with  his  regiment,  self- 
respedling  and  well-mannered,  with  habits  of 
cleanliness  and  obedience,  having  acquired  a 
bearing,  and  a  love  of  order  that  will  cling  to 
and  serve  him  all  his  life.  We  do  not  go  so 
far,"  he  added,  "as  our  English  neighbors  in 
drilling  men  into  superb  manikins  of f  form'  and 
carriage.  Our  authorities  do  not  consider  it  neces 
sary.  But  we  reclaim  youths  from  the  sloven 
liness  of  their  native  village  or  workshop  and 
make  them  tidy  and  mannerly  citizens." 

These  remarks  came  to  mind  the  other  day 
as  I  watched  a  group  of  New  England  youths 
lounging  on  the  steps  of  the  village  store,  or 
sitting  in  rows  on  a  neighboring  fence,  until  I 
longed  to  try  if  even  a  judicial  arrangement  of 

[  5'  ] 


tacks,  *  business-end  up,'  on  these  favorite  seats 
would  infuse  any  energy  into  their  movements. 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  my  French  ac 
quaintance  was  right,  for  the  only  trim-looking 
men  to  be  seen,  were  either  veterans  of  our  war 
or  youths  belonging  to  the  local  militia.  And 
nowhere  does  one  see  finer  specimens  of  human 
ity  than  West  Point  and  Annapolis  turn  out. 

If  any  one  doubts  what  kind  of  men  slouching 
youths  develop  into,  let  him  look  when  he  trav 
els,  at  the  dejected  appearance  of  the  farmhouses 
throughout  our  land.  Surely  our  rural  popula 
tions  are  not  so  much  poorer  than  those  of  other 
countries.  Yet  when  one  compares  the  dreary 
homes  of  even  our  well-to-do  farmers  with  the 
smiling,  well-kept  hamlets  seen  in  England  or 
on  the  Continent,  such  would  seem  to  be  the 
case. 

If  ours  were  an  old  and  bankrupt  nation,  this 
air  of  discouragement  and  decay  could  not  be 
greater.  Outside  of  the  big  cities  one  looks  in  vain 
for  some  sign  of  American  dash  and  enterprise 
in  the  appearance  of  our  men  and  their  homes. 

During  a  journey  of  over  four  thousand  miles, 
made  last  spring  as  the  guest  of  a  gentleman  who 
knows  our  country  thoroughly,  I  was  impressed 
most  painfully  with  this  abject  air.  Never  in  all 
those  days  did  we  see  a  fruit-tree  trained  on  some 
sunny  southern  wall,  a  smiling  flower-garden  or 
carefully  clipped  hedge.  My  host  told  me  that 
hardly  the  necessary  vegetables  are  grown,  the 


SLOUCH 

inhabitants  of  the  West  and  South  preferring 
canned  food.  It  is  less  trouble! 

If  you  wish  to  form  an  idea  of  the  extent  to 
which  slouch  prevails  in  our  country,  try  to 
start  a  "village  improvement  society,"  and  ex 
perience,  as  others  have  done,  the  apathy  and 
ill-will  of  the  inhabitants  when  you  go  about 
among  them  and  strive  to  summon  some  of  their 
local  pride  to  your  aid. 

In  the  town  near  which  I  pass  my  summers, 
a  large  stone,  fallen  from  a  passing  dray,  lay  for 
days  in  the  middle  of  the  principal  street,  until 
I  paid  some  boys  to  remove  it.  No  one  cared, 
and  the  dull-eyed  inhabitants  would  doubtless 
be  looking  at  it  still  but  for  my  impatience. 

One  would  imagine  the  villagers  were  all  on 
the  point  of  moving  away  (and  they  generally 
are,  if  they  can  sell  their  land),  so  little  interest 
do  they  show  in  your  plans.  Like  all  people  who 
have  fallen  into  bad  habits,  they  have  grown  to 
love  their  slatternly  ways  and  cling  to  them, 
resenting  furiously  any  attempt  to  shake  them 
up  to  energy  and  reform. 

The  farmer  has  not,  however,  a  monopoly. 
Slouch  seems  ubiquitous.  Our  railway  and  steam 
boat  systems  have  tried  in  vain  to  combat  it,  and 
supplied  their  employees  with  a  livery  (I  beg 
the  free  and  independent  voter's  pardon,  a  uni 
form!),  with  but  little  effect.  The  inherent  ten 
dency  is  too  strong  for  the  corporations.  The 
conductors  still  shuffle  along  in  their  spotted 

[53] 


garments,  the  cap  on  the  back  of  the  head5  and 
their  legs  anywhere,  while  they  chew  gum  in  de 
fiance  of  the  whole  Board  of  Directors. 

Go  down  to  Washington,  after  a  visit  to  the 
Houses  of  Parliament  or  the  Chamber  of  Depu 
ties,  and  observe  the  contrast  between  the  bearing 
of  our  Senators  and  Representatives  and  theairof 
their  confreres  abroad.  Our  law-makers  seem  try 
ing  to  avoid  every  appearance  of  "smartness." 
Indeed,  I  am  told,  so  great  is  the  prejudice  in 
the  United  States  against  a  well-turned-out  man 
that  a  candidate  would  seriously  compromise 
his  chances  of  election  who  appeared  before  his 
constituents  in  other  than  the  accustomed  shabby 
frock-coat,  unbuttoned  and  floating,  a  pot  hat, 
no  gloves,  as  much  doubtfully  white  shirt-front 
as  possible,  and  a  wisp  of  black  silk  for  a  tie; 
and  if  he  can  exhibit  also  a  chin-whisker,  his 
chances  of  election  are  materially  increased. 

Nothing  offends  an  eye  accustomed  to  our 
native  laisser  aller  so  much  as  a  well-brushed  hat 
and  shining  boots.  When  abroad,  it  is  easy  to  spot 
a  compatriot  as  soon  and  as  far  as  you  can  see  one, 
by  his  graceless  gait,  a  cross  between  a  lounge 
and  a  shufHe.  In  reading-,  or  dining-room,  he  is 
the  only  man  whose  spine  does  not  seem  equal 
to  its  work,  so  he  flops  and  straggles  until,  for 
the  honor  of  your  land,  you  long  to  shake  him 
and  set  him  squarely  on  his  legs. 

No  amount  of  reasoning  can  convince  me  that 
outward  slovenliness  is  not  a  sign  of  inward  and 

[  54] 


S LOUGH 

moral  supineness.  A  neglected  exterior  generally 
means  a  lax  moral  code.  The  man  who  considers 
it  too  much  trouble  to  sit  erect  can  hardly  have 
given  much  time  to  his  tub  or  his  toilet.  Having 
neglected  his  clothes,  he  will  neglect  his  manners, 
and  between  morals  and  manners  we  know  the 
tie  is  intimate. 

In  the  Orient  a  new  reign  is  often  inaugurated 
by  the  construction  of  a  mosque.  Vast  expense 
is  incurred  to  make  it  as  splendid  as  possible. 
But,  once  completed,  it  is  never  touched  again. 
Others  are  built  by  succeeding  sovereigns,  but 
neither  thought  nor  treasure  is  ever  expended  on 
the  old  ones.  When  they  can  no  longer  be  used, 
they  are  abandoned,  and  fall  into  decay.  The 
same  system  seems  to  prevail  among  our  private 
owners  and  corporations.  Streets  are  paved,  lamp 
posts  erected,  store-fronts  carefully  adorned,  but 
from  the  hour  the  workman  puts  his  finishing 
touch  upon  them  they  are  abandoned  to  the 
hand  of  fate.  The  mud  may  cake  up  knee-deep, 
wind  and  weather  work  their  own  sweet  will,  it 
is  no  one's  business  to  interfere. 

When  abroad  one  of  my  amusements  has 
been  of  an  early  morning  to  watch  Paris  making 
its  toilet.  The  streets  are  taking  a  bath,  liveried 
attendants  are  blacking  the  boots  of  the  lamp 
posts  and  newspaper-^/'o^«^,the  shop-fronts  are 
being  shaved  and  having  their  hair  curled,  cafes 
and  restaurants  are  putting  on  clean  shirts  and 
tying  their  cravats  smartly  before  their  many  mir- 

[55] 


& 


rors.  By  the  time  the  world  is  up  and  about,  the 
whole  city,  smiling  freshly  from  its  matutinal 
tub,  is  ready  to  greet  it  gayly. 

It  is  this  attention  to  detail  that  gives  to  Con 
tinental  cities  their  air  of  cheerfulness  and  thrift, 
and  the  utter  lack  of  it  that  impresses  foreigners 
so  painfully  on  arriving  at  our  shores. 

It  has  been  the  fashion  to  laugh  at  the  dude 
and  his  high  collar,  at  the  darky  in  his  master's 
cast-off  clothes,  aping  style  and  fashion.  Better 
the  dude,  better  the  colored  dandy,  better  even 
the  Bowery  "tough"  with  his  affecled  carriage, 
for  they  at  least  are  reaching  blindly  out  after 
something  better  than  their  surroundings,  striv 
ing  after  an  ideal,  and  are  in  just  so  much  the 
superiors  of  the  foolish  souls  who  mock  them  — 
better,  even  misguided  efforts,  than  the  ignoble 
stagnant  quagmire  of  slouch  into  which  we  seem 
to  be  slowly  descending. 


[56] 


Social  Suggestion 


THE  question  of  how  far  we  are  un 
consciously  influenced  by  people  and 
surroundings,  in  our  likes  and  dislikes, 
our  opinions,  and  even  in  our  pleasures  and  in 
timate  tastes,  is  a  delicate  and  interesting  one, 
for  the  line  between  success  and  failure  in  the 
world,  as  on  the  stage  or  in  most  of  the  pro 
fessions,  is  so  narrow  and  depends  so  often  on 
what  humor  one's  "public"  happen  to  be  in  at 
a  particular  moment,  that  the  subject  is  worthy 
of  consideration. 

Has  it  never  happened  to  you,  for  instance, 
to  dine  with  friends  and  go  afterwards  in  a  jolly 
humor  to  the  play  which  proved  so  delightful 
that  you  insist  on  taking  your  family  immedi 
ately  to  see  it;  when  to  your  astonishment  you 
discover  that  it  is  neither  clever  nor  amusing, 
on  the  contrary  rather  dull.  Your  family  look 
at  you  in  amazement  and  wonder  what  you  had 
seen  to  admire  in  such  an  asinine  performance. 
There  was  a  case  of  suggestion!  You  had  been 
influenced  by  your  friends  and  had  shared  their 
opinions.  The  same  thing  occurs  on  a  higher 
scale  when  one  is  raised  out  of  one's  self  by 
association  with  gifted  and  original  people,  a 
communion  with  more  cultivated  natures  which 
causes  you  to  discover  and  appreciate  a  thou- 

[57] 


sand  hidden  beauties  in  literature,  art  or  music 
that  left  to  yourself,  you  would  have  failed  to 
notice.  Under  these  circumstances  you  will  often 
be  astonished  at  the  point  and  piquancy  of  your 
own  conversation.  This  is  but  too  true  of  a  num 
ber  of  subjects. 

We  fondly  believe  our  opinions  and  convic 
tions  to  be  original,  and  with  innocent  conceit, 
imagine  that  we  have  formed  them  for  ourselves. 
The  illusion  of  being  unlike  other  people  is  a 
common  vanity.  Beware  of  the  man  who  asserts 
such  a  claim.  He  is  sure  to  be  a  bore  and  will 
serve  up  to  you,  as  his  own,  a  muddle  of  ideas 
and  opinions  which  he  has  absorbed  like  a  sponge 
from  his  surroundings. 

No  place  is  more  propitious  for  studying  this 
curious  phenomenon,  than  behind  the  scenes  of 
a  theatre,  the  last  few  nights  before  a  first  per 
formance.  The  whole  company  is  keyed  up  to  a 
point  of  mutual  admiration  that  they  are  far  from 
feeling  generally.  "The  piece  is  charming  and 
sure  to  be  a  success."  The  author  and  the  inter 
preters  of  his  thoughts  are  in  complete  commun 
ion.  The  first  night  comes.  The  piece  is  a  failure ! 
Drop  into  the  greenroom  then  and  you  will 
find  an  astonishing  change  has  taken  place.  The 
Star  will  take  you  into  a  corner  and  assert  that, 
she  "always  knew  the  thing  could  not  go,  it  was 
too  imbecile,  with  such  a  company,  it  was  folly 
to  expect  anything  else."  The  author  will  abuse 
the  Star  and  the  management.  The  whole  troupe 

[58] 


SOCIAL    SUGGESTION 

is  frankly  disconcerted,  like  people  aroused  out 
of  a  hypnotic  sleep,  wondering  what  they  had 
seen  in  the  play  to  admire. 

In  the  social  world  we  are  even  more  incon 
sistent,  accepting  with  tameness  the  most  aston 
ishing  theories  and  opinions.  Whole  circles  will 
go  on  assuring  each  other  how  clever  Miss  So- 
and-So  is,  or,  how  beautiful  they  think  someone 
else.  Not  because  these  good  people  are  any 
cleverer,  or  more  attractive  than  their  neighbors, 
but  simply  because  it  is  in  the  air  to  have  these 
opinions  about  them.  To  such  an  extent  does 
this  hold  good,  that  certain  persons  are  privi 
leged  to  be  vulgar  and  rude,  to  say  impertinent 
things  and  make  remarks  that  would  ostracize  a 
less  fortunate  individual  from  the  polite  world 
for  ever;  society  will  only  smilingly  shrug  its 
shoulders  and  say:  "It  is  only  Mr.  So-and-So's 
way."  It  is  useless  to  assert  that  in  cases  like 
these,  people  are  in  possession  of  their  normal 
senses.  They  are  under  influences  of  which  they 
are  perfectly  unconscious. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  piece  guyed?  Few 
sadder  sights  exist,  the  human  being  rarely  get 
ting  nearer  the  brute  than  when  engaged  in  this 
amusement.  Nothing  the  actor  or  actress  can  do 
will  satisfy  the  public.  Men  who  under  ordi 
nary  circumstances  would  be  incapable  of  in 
sulting  a  woman,  will  whistle  and  stamp  and 
laugh,  at  an  unfortunate  girl  who  is  doing  her 
utmost  to  amuse  them.  A  terrible  example  of 

[59] 


WdTS    fcf 


this  was  given  two  winters  ago  at  one  of  our 
concert  halls,  when  a  family  of  Western  singers 
were  subjected  to  absolute  ill-treatment  at  the 
hands  or  the  public.  The  young  girls  were  per 
fectly  sincere,  in  their  rude  way,  but  this  did 
not  prevent  men  from  offering  them  every  in 
sult  malice  could  devise,  and  making  them  a 
target  for  every  missile  at  hand.  So  little  does  the 
public  think  for  itself  in  cases  like  this,  that  at 
the  opening  of  the  performance  had  some  well- 
known  person  given  the  signal  for  applause,  the 
whole  audience  would,  in  all  probability,  have 
been  delighted  and  made  the  wretched  sisters  a 
success. 

In  my  youth  it  was  the  fashion  to  affect  ad 
miration  for  the  Italian  school  of  painting  and 
especially  for  the  great  masters  of  the  Renais 
sance.  Whole  families  of  perfectly  inartistic 
English  and  Americans  might  then  be  heard 
conscientiously  admiring  the  ceiling  of  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel  or  Leonardo's  Last  Supper  (Botti 
celli  had  not  been  invented  then)  in  the  choicest 
guide-book  language. 

When  one  considers  the  infinite  knowledge  of 
technique  required  to  understand  the  difficulties 
overcome  by  the  giants  of  the  Renaissance  and  to 
appreciate  the  intrinsic  qualities  of  their  crea 
tions,  one  asks  one's  self  in  wonder  what  our 
parents  admired  in  those  paintings,  and  what 
tempted  them  to  bring  home  and  adorn  their 
houses  with  such  dreadful  copies  of  their  favorites. 

[60] 


SOCIAL    SUGGESTION 

For  if  they  appreciated  the  originals  they  never 
would  have  bought  the  copies,  and  if  the  copies 
pleased  them,  they  must  have  been  incapable 
of  enjoying  the  originals.  Yet  all  these  people 
thought  themselves  perfectly  sincere.  To-day 
you  wilt  see  the  same  thing  going  on  before  the 
paintings  of  Claude  Monet  and  Besnard,  the 
same  admiration  expressed  by  people  who,  you 
feel  perfectly  sure,  do  not  realize  why  these  works 
of  art  are  superior  and  can  no  more  explain  to 
you  why  they  think  as  they  do  than  the  sheep 
that  follow  each  other  through  a  hole  in  a  wall, 
can  give  a  reason  for  their  actions. 

Dress  and  fashion  in  clothes  are  subjects 
above  all  others,  where  the  ineptitude  of  the 
human  mind  is  most  evident.  Can  it  be  ex 
plained  in  any  other  way,  why  the  fashions  of 
yesterday  always  appear  so  hideous  to  us, — al 
most  grotesque?  Take  up  an  old  album  of  pho 
tographs  and  glance  over  the  faded  contents. 
Was  there  ever  anything  so  absurd?  Look  at 
the  top  hats  men  wore,  and  at  the  skirts  of  the 
women ! 

The  mother  of  a  family  said  to  me  the  other 
day:  "When  I  recall  the  way  in  which  girls 
were  dressed  in  my  youth,  I  wonder  how  any 
of  us  ever  got  a  husband." 

Study  a  photograph  of  the  Empress  Eugenie, 
that  supreme  arbiter  of  elegance  and  grace. 
Oh!  those  bunchy  hooped  skirts!  That  awful 
India  shawl  pinned  off  the  shoulders,  and  the 

[61  ] 


& 


bonnet  perched  on  a  roll  of  hair  in  the  nape  of 
the  neck!  What  were  people  thinking  of  at 
that  time?  Were  they  lunatics  to  deform  in 
this  way  the  beautiful  lines  of  the  human  body 
which  it  should  be  the  first  object  of  toilet  to 
enhance,  or  were  they  only  lacking  in  the  artis 
tic  sense?  Nothing  of  the  kind.  And  what  is 
more,  they  were  convinced  that  the  real  secret 
of  beauty  in  dress  had  been  discovered  by  them; 
that  past  fashions  were  absurd,  and  that  the  fu 
ture  could  not  improve  on  their  creations.  The 
sculptors  and  painters  of  that  day  (men  of  as 
great  talent  as  any  now  living),  were  enthusiastic 
in  reproducing  those  monstrosities  in  marble  or 
on  canvas,  and  authors  raved  about  the  ideal  grace 
with  which  a  certain  beauty  draped  her  shawl. 

Another  marked  manner  in  which  we  are  in 
fluenced  by  circumambient  suggestion,  is  in  the 
transient  furore  certain  games  and  pastimes 
create.  We  see  intelligent  people  so  given  over 
to  this  influence  as  barely  to  allow  themselves 
time  to  eat  and  sleep,  begrudging  the  hours  thus 
stolen  from  their  favorite  amusement. 

Ten  years  ago,  tennis  occupied  every  moment 
of  our  young  people's  time;  now  golf  has  trans 
planted  tennis  in  public  favor,  which  does  not 
prove,  however,  that  the  latter  is  the  better 
game,  but  simply  that  compelled  by  the  accumu 
lated  force  of  other  people's  opinions,  youths  and 
maidens,  old  duffers  and  mature  spinsters  are 
willing  to  pass  many  hours  daily  in  all  kinds  of 

[62] 


SOCIAL    SUGGESTION 

weather,  solemnly  following  an  indian-rubberball 
across  ten-acre  lots. 

If  you  suggest  to  people  who  are  laboring 
under  the  illusion  they  are  amusing  themselves 
that  the  game,  absorbing  so  much  of  their  at 
tention,  is  not  as  exciting  as  tennis  nor  as  clever 
in  combinations  as  croquet,  that  in  fact  it  would 
be  quite  as  amusing  to  roll  an  empty  barrel 
several  times  around  a  plowed  field,  they  laugh 
at  you  in  derision  and  instantly  put  you  down 
in  their  profound  minds  as  a  man  who  does  not 
understand  "sport." 

Yet  these  very  people  were  tennis-mad  twenty 
years  ago  and  had  night  come  to  interrupt  a  game 
of  croquet  would  have  ordered  lanterns  lighted 
in  order  to  finish  the  match  so  enthralling  were 
its  intricacies. 

Everybody  has  known  how  to  play  Bezique 
in  this  country  for  years,  yet  within  the  last 
eighteen  months,  whole  circles  of  our  friends 
have  been  seized  with  a  midsummer  madness 
and  willingly  sat  glued  to  a  card-table  through 
long  hot  afternoons  and  again  after  dinner  until 
day  dawned  on  their  folly. 

Certain  Memoires  of  Louis  Fifteenth's  reign 
tell  of  an  "unravelling"  mania  that  developed  at 
his  court.  It  began  by  some  people  fraying  out 
old  silks  to  obtain  the  gold  and  silver  threads 
from  worn-out  stuffs;  this  occupation  soon 
became  the  rage,  nothing  could  restrain  the  de 
lirium  of  destruction,  great  ladies  tore  priceless 

[63  ] 


WORLDLY    W*AYS    fcf    <BYW<AYS 

tapestries  from  their  walls  and  brocades  from 
their  furniture,  in  order  to  unravel  those  materi 
als  and  as  the  old  stock  did  not  suffice  for  the 
demand  thousands  were  spent  on  new  brocades 
and  velvets,  which  were  instantly  destroyed, 
entertainments  were  given  where  unravelling 
was  the  only  amusement  offered,  the  entire 
court  thinking  and  talking  of  nothing  else  for 
months. 

What  is  the  logical  deduction  to  be  drawn 
from  all  this?  Simply  that  people  do  not  see 
with  their  eyes  or  judge  with  their  understand 
ings;  that  an  all-pervading  hypnotism,  an  am 
bient  suggestion,  at  times  envelops  us  taking 
from  people  all  free  will,  and  replacing  it  with 
the  taste  and  judgment  of  the  moment. 

The  number  of  people  is  small  in  each  genera 
tion,  who  are  strong  enough  to  rise  above  their 
surroundings  and  think  for  themselves.  The  rest 
are  as  dry  leaves  on  a  stream.  They  float  along 
and  turn  gayly  in  the  eddies,  convinced  all  the 
time  (as  perhaps  are  the  leaves)  that  they  acl: 
entirely  from  their  own  volition  and  that  their 
movements  are  having  a  profound  influence  on 
the  direction  and  force  of  the  current. 


[64] 


N°-  10 

Bohemia 


LUNCHING  with  a  talented  English 
comedian  and  his  wife  the  other  day, 
the  conversation  turned  on  Bohemia, 
the  evasive  no-man's-land  that  Thackeray  re 
ferred  to,  in  so  many  of  his  books,  and  to  which 
he  looked  back  lovingly  in  his  later  years,  when, 
as  he  said,  he  had  forgotten  the  road  to  Prague. 
The  lady  remarked :  "  People  have  been  more 
than  kind  to  us  here  in  New  York.  We  have 
dined  and  supped  out  constantly,  and  have  met 
with  gracious  kindness,  such  as  we  can  never  for 
get.  But  so  far  we  have  not  met  a  single  painter, 
or  author,  or  sculptor,  or  a  man  who  has  ex 
plored  a  corner  of  the  earth.  Neither  have  we 
had  the  good  luck  to  find  ourselves  in  the  same 
room  with  Tesla  or  Rehan,  Edison  or  Drew.  We 
shall  regret  so  much  when  back  in  England  and 
are  asked  about  your  people  of  talent,  being 
obliged  to  say,  'We  never  met  any  of  them.' 
Why  is  it?  We  have  not  been  in  any  one  circle, 
and  have  pitched  our  tents  in  many  cities,  dur 
ing  our  tours  over  here,  but  always  with  the  same 
result.  We  read  your  American  authors  as  much 
as,  if  not  more  than,  our  own.  The  names  of 
dozens  of  your  discoverers  and  painters  are  house 
hold  words  in  England.  When  my  husband 
planned  his  first  tour  over  here  my  one  idea  was, 

[65] 


WdYS    fcf 


'  How  nice  it  will  be  !  Now  I  shall  meet  those  de 
lightful  people  of  whom  I  have  heard  so  much.' 
The  disappointment  has  been  complete.  Never 
one  have  I  seen." 

I  could  not  but  feel  how  all  too  true  were  the 
remarks  of  this  intelligent  visitor,  remembering 
how  quick  the  society  of  London  is  to  welcome 
a  new  celebrity  or  original  character,  how  a  place 
is  at  once  made  for  him  at  every  hospitable 
board,  a  permanent  one  to  which  he  is  expected 
to  return;  and  how  no  Continental  entertain 
ment  is  considered  complete  withoutsome  bright 
particular  star  to  shine  in  the  firmament. 

"Lion-hunting,"  I  hear  my  reader  say  with 
a  sneer.  That  may  be,  but  it  makes  society  worth 
the  candle,  which  it  rarely  is  over  here.  I  realized 
what  I  had  often  vaguely  felt  before,  that  the 
Bohemia  the  English  lady  was  looking  for  was 
not  to  be  found  in  this  country,  more's  the  pity. 
Not  that  the  elements  are  lacking.  Far  from  it, 
(for  even  more  than  in  London  should  we  be  able 
to  combine  such  a  society),  but  perhaps  from  a 
misconception  of  the  true  idea  of  such  a  society, 
due  probably  to  Henry  Murger's  dreary  book 
Scenes  de  la  vie  de  Boheme  which  is  chargeable  with 
the  fact  that  a  circle  of  this  kind  evokes  in  the 
mind  of  most  Americans  visions  of  a  scrubby, 
poorly-fed  and  less-washed  community,  a  world 
they  would  hardly  dare  ask  to  their  tables  for  fear 
of  some  embarrassing  unconventionality  of  con 
duct  or  dress. 

[66] 


SO  HE  3\4 


Yet  that  can  hardly  be  the  reason,  for  even  in 
Murger  or  Paul  de  Kock,  at  their  worst,  the  hero 
is  still  a  gentleman,  and  even  when  he  borrows 
a  friend's  coat,  it  is  to  go  to  a  great  house  and 
among  people  of  rank.  Besides,  we  are  becoming 
too  cosmopolitan,  and  wander  too  constantly 
over  this  little  globe,  not  to  have  learned  that 
the  Bohemia  of  1830  is  as  completely  a  thing  of 
the  past  as  a  grisette  or  a  glyphisodon.  It  dis 
appeared  with  Gavarni  and  the  authors  who 
described  it.  Although  we  have  kept  the  word, 
its  meaning  has  gradually  changed  until  it  has 
come  to  mean  something  difficult  to  define,  a 
will-o'-the-wisp,  which  one  tries  vainly  to  grasp. 
With  each  decade  it  has  put  on  a  new  form  and 
changed  its  centre,  the  one  definite  fact  being 
that  it  combines  the  better  elements  of  several 
social  layers. 

Drop  in,  if  you  are  in  Paris  and  know  the  way, 
at  one  of  Madeleine  Lemaire's  informal  even 
ings  in  her  studio.  There  you  may  find  the  Prince 
de  Ligne,  chatting  with  Rejane  or  Coquelin; 
or  Henri  d'Orleans,  just  back  from  an  expedition 
into  Africa.  A  little  further  on,  Saint-Saens  will 
be  running  over  the  keys,  preparing  an  accom 
paniment  forone  of  Madame  deTredern's  songs. 
The  Princess  Mathilde  (that  passionate  lover  of 
art)  will  surely  be  there,  and — but  it  is  needless 
to  particularize. 

Cross  the  Channel,  and  get  yourself  asked  to 
one  of  Irving's  choice  suppers  after  the  play. 


& 


You  will  find  the  bar,  the  stage,  and  the  pulpit 
represented  there,  a  "happy  family"  over  which 
the  "Prince"  often  presides,  smoking  cigar  after 
cigar,  until  the  tardy  London  daylight  appears 
to  break  up  the  entertainment. 

For  both  are  centres  where  the  gifted  and  the 
travelled  meet  the  great  of  the  social  world,  on 
a  footing  of  perfect  equality,  and  where,  if  any 
prestige  is  accorded,  it  is  that  of  brains.  When 
you  have  seen  these  places  and  a  dozen  others 
like  them,  you  will  realize  what  the  actor's  wife 
had  in  her  mind. 

Now,  let  me  whisper  to  you  why  I  think  such 
circles  do  not  exist  in  this  country.  In  the  first 
place,  we  are  still  too  provincial  in  this  big  city 
of  ours.  New  York  always  reminds  me  of  a  defi 
nition  I  once  heard  of  California  fruit:  "Very 
large,  with  no  particular  flavor."  We  are  like  a 
boy,  who  has  had  the  misfortune  to  grow  too 
quickly  and  look  like  a  man,  but  whose  mind  has 
not  kept  pace  with  his  body.  What  he  knows  is 
undigested  and  chaotic,  while  his  appearance 
makes  you  expect  more  of  him  than  he  can 
give  —  hence  disappointment. 

Our  society  is  yet  in  knickerbockers,  and  has 
retained  all  sorts  of  littlenesses  and  prejudices 
which  older  civilizations  have  long  since  rele 
gated  to  the  mental  lumber  room.  An  equivalent 
to  this  point  of  view  you  will  find  in  England 
or  France  only  in  the  smaller  "cathedral"  cities, 
and  even  there  the  old  aristocrats  have  the  cour- 
[68] 


age  of  their  opinions.  Here,  where  everything  is 
quite  frankly  on  a  money  basis,  and  "positions" 
are  made  and  lost  like  a  fortune,  by  a  turn  of  the 
market,  those  qualities  which  are  purely  men 
tal,  and  on  which  it  is  hard  to  put  a  practical 
value,  are  naturally  at  a  discount.  We  are  quite 
ready  to  pay  for  the  best.  Witness  our  private 
galleries  and  the  opera,  but  we  say,  like  the  par 
venu  in  fimile  Augier's  delightful  comedy  Le 
Gendre  de  M.  Poirier,  "Patronize  art?  Of  course! 
But  the  artists?  Never!  "  And  frankly,  it  would 
be  too  much,  would  it  not,  to  expect  a  family 
only  half  a  generation  away  from  an  iron  foundry, 
or  a  mine,  to  be  willing  to  receive  Irving  or 
Bernhardt  on  terms  of  perfect  equality  ? 

As  it  would  be  unjust  to  demand  a  mature 
mind  in  the  overgrown  boy,  it  is  useless  to  hope 
for  delicate  tact  and  social  feeling  from  the  par 
venu.  To  be  gracious  and  at  ease  with  all  classes 
and  professions,  one  must  be  perfectly  sure  of 
one's  own  position,  and  with  us  few  feel  this 
security,  it  being  based  on  too  frail  a  foundation, 
a  crisis  in  the  "  street"  going  a  long  way  towards 
destroying  it. 

Of  course  I  am  generalizing  and  doubt  not 
that  in  many  cultivated  homes  the  right  spirit 
exists,  but  unfortunately  these  are  not  the  centres 
which  give  the  tone  to  our  "world."  Lately  at 
one  of  the  most  splendid  houses  in  this  city  a 
young  Italian  tenor  had  been  engaged  to  sing. 
When  he  had  finished  he  stood  alone,  unno- 

[69] 


& 


ticed,  unspoken  to  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
He  had  been  paid  to  sing.  "What  more,  in 
common  sense,  could  he  want?"  thought  the 
"world,"  without  reflecting  that  it  was  probably 
not  the  tenor  who  lost  by  that  arrangement.  It 
needs  a  delicate  hand  to  hold  the  reins  over  the 
backs  of  such  a  fine-mouthed  community  as 
artists  and  singers  form.  They  rarely  give  their 
best  when  singing  or  performing  in  a  hostile  at 
mosphere. 

A  few  years  ago  when  a  fancy-dress  ball  was 
given  at  the  Academy  of  Design,  the  original 
idea  was  to  have  it  an  artists'  ball  ;  the  commu 
nity  of  the  brush  were,  however,  approached  with 
such  a  complete  lack  of  tact  that,  with  hardly 
an  exception,  they  held  aloof,  and  at  the  ball 
shone  conspicuous  by  their  absence. 

At  present  in  this  city  I  know  of  but  two  hos 
pitable  firesides  where  you  are  sure  to  meet  the 
best  the  city  holds  of  either  foreign  or  native 
talent.  The  one  is  presided  over  by  the  wife  of  a 
young  composer,  and  the  other,  oddly  enough, 
by  two  unmarried  ladies.  An  invitation  to  a 
dinner  or  a  supper  at  either  of  these  houses  is 
as  eagerly  sought  after  and  as  highly  prized  in 
the  great  world  as  it  is  by  the  Bohemians,  though 
neither  "salon"  is  open  regularly. 

There  is  still  hope  for  us,  and  I  already  see 
signs  of  better  things.  Perhaps,  when  my  English 
friend  returns  in  a  few  years,  we  may  be  able  to 
prove  to  her  that  we  have  found  the  road  to 
Prague.  [  ?o  ] 


Social  Exiles 


BALZAC,  in  his  Come  die  Humaine,  has  re 
viewed  with  a  master-hand  almost  every 
phase  of  the  Social  World  of  Paris  down 
to  1850  and  Thackeray  left  hardly  a  corner  of 
London  High  Life  unexplored;  but  so  great 
have  been  the  changes  (progress,  its  admirers 
call  it,)  since  then,  that,  could  Balzac  come  back 
to  his  beloved  Paris,  he  would  feel  like  a  for 
eigner  there;  and  Thackeray,  who  was  among 
us  but  yesterday,  would  have  difficulty  in  find 
ing  his  bearings  in  the  sea  of  the  London  world 
of  to-day. 

We  have  changed  so  radically  that  even  a 
casual  observer  cannot  help  being  struck  by  the 
difference.  Among  other  most  significant  "phe 
nomena"  has  appeared  a  phase  of  life  that  not 
only  neither  of  these  great  men  observed  (for 
the  very  good  reason  that  it  had  not  appeared 
in  their  time),  but  which  seems  also  to  have  es 
caped  the  notice  of  the  writers  of  our  own  day, 
close  observers  as  they  are  of  any  new  develop 
ment.  I  mean  the  class  of  Social  Exiles,  pitiable 
wanderers  from  home  and  country,  who  haunt 
the  Continent,  and  are  to  be  found  (sad  little 
colonies)  in  out-of-the-way  corners  of  almost 
every  civilized  country. 

[71  ] 


To  know  much  of  this  form  of  modern  life, 
one  must  have  been  a  wanderer,  like  myself, 
and  have  pitched  his  tent  in  many  queer  places; 
for  they  are  shy  game  and  not  easily  raised,  fre 
quenting  mostly  quiet  old  cities  like  Versailles 
and  Florence,  or  inexpensive  watering-places 
where  their  meagre  incomes  become  affluence 
by  contrast.  The  first  thought  on  dropping  in 
on  such  a  settlement  is,  "How  in  the  world 
did  these  people  ever  drift  here?"  It  is  simple 
enough  and  generally  comes  about  in  this  way: 

The  father  of  a  wealthy  family  dies.  The  for 
tune  turns  out  to  be  less  than  was  expected. 
The  widow  and  children  decide  to  go  abroad 
for  a  year  or  so,  during  their  period  of  mourn 
ing,  partially  for  distraction,  and  partially  (a  fact 
which  is  not  spoken  of)  because  at  home  they 
would  be  forced  to  change  their  way  of  living  to 
a  simpler  one,  and  that  is  hard  to  do,  just  at 
first.  Later  they  think  it  will  be  quite  easy.  So 
the  family  emigrates,  and  after  a  little  sight-see 
ing,  settles  in  Dresden  or  Tours,  casually  at  first, 
in  a  hotel.  If  there  are  young  children  they  are 
made  the  excuse.  "The  languages  are  so  impor 
tant!"  Or  else  one  of  the  daughters  develops  a 
taste  for  music,  or  a  son  takes  up  the  study  of 
art.  In  a  year  or  two,  before  a  furnished  apart 
ment  is  taken,  the  idea  of  returning  is  discussed, 
but  abandoned  "for  the  present."  They  begin 
vaguely  to  realize  how  difficult  it  will  be  to 
take  life  up  again  at  home.  During  all  this  time 

[?*] 


SOCIAL   EXILES 


their  income  (like  everything  else  when  the 
owners  are  absent)  has  been  slowly  but  surely 
disappearing,  making  the  return  each  year  more 
difficult.  Finally,  for  economy,  an  unfurnished 
apartment  is  taken.  They  send  home  for  bits  of 
furniture  and  family  belongings,  and  gradually 
drop  into  the  great  army  of  the  expatriated. 

Oh,  the  pathos  of  it!  One  who  has  not  seen 
these  poor  stranded  waifs  in  their  self-imposed 
exile,  with  eyes  turned  towards  their  native  land, 
cannot  realize  all  the  sadness  and  loneliness  they 
endure,  rarely  adopting  the  country  of  their 
residence  but  becoming  more  firmly  American 
as  the  years  go  by.  The  home  papers  and  peri 
odicals  are  taken,  the  American  church  attended, 
if  there  happens  to  be  one;  the  English  chapel, 
if  there  is  not.  Never  a  French  church!  In  their 
hearts  they  think  it  almost  irreverent  to  read 
the  service  in  French.  The  acquaintance  of  a 
few  fellow-exiles  is  made  and  that  of  a  half-dozen 
English  families,  mothers  and  daughters  and  a 
younger  son  or  two,  whom  the  ferocious  primo 
geniture  custom  has  cast  out  of  the  homes  of 
their  childhood  to  economize  on  the  Conti 
nent. 

I  have  in  my  mind  a  little  settlement  of  this 
kind  at  Versailles,  which  was  a  type.  The  formal 
old  city,  fallen  from  its  grandeur,  was  a  singu 
larly  appropriate  setting  to  the  little  comedy. 
There  the  modest  purses  of  the  exiles  found 
rents  within  their  reach,  the  quarters  vast  and 

[73] 


airy.  The  galleries  and  the  park  afforded  a  diver 
sion,  and  then  Paris,  dear  Paris,  the  American 
Mecca,  was  within  reach.  At  the  time  I  knew 
it,  the  colony  was  fairly  prosperous,  many  of  its 
members  living  in  the  two  or  three  principal 
-pensions •,  the  others  in  apartments  of  their  own. 
They  gave  feeble  little  entertainments  among 
themselves,  card-parties  and  teas,  and  dined 
about  with  each  other  at  their  respective  tables 
d'hote,  even  knowing  a  stray  Frenchman  or 
two,  whom  the  quest  of  a  meal  had  tempted 
out  of  their  native  fastnesses  as  it  does  the  wolves 
in  a  hard  winter.  Writing  and  receiving  letters 
from  America  was  one  of  the  principal  occupa 
tions,  and  an  epistle  descriptive  of  a  particular 
event  at  home  went  the  rounds,  and  was  eagerly 
read  and  discussed. 

The  merits  of  the  different  pensions  also  formed 
a  subject  of  vital  interest.  The  advantages  and 
disadvantages  of  these  rival  establishments  were, 
as  a  topic,  never  exhausted.  Madame  une  telle 
gave  five  o'clock  tea,  included  in  the  seven  francs 
a  day,  but  her  rival  gave  one  more  meat  course 
at  dinner  and  her  coffee  was  certainly  better,  while 
a  third  undoubtedly  had  a  nicer  set  of  people. 
No  one  here  at  home  can  realize  the  importance 
these  matters  gradually  assume  in  the  eyes  of 
the  exiles.  Their  slender  incomes  have  to  be  so 
carefully  handled  to  meet  the  strain  of  even  this 
simple  way  of  living,  if  they  are  to  show  a  sur 
plus  for  a  little  trip  to  the  seashore  in  the  sum- 

[74] 


SOCIAL   EXILES 


mer  months,  that  an  extra  franc  a  day  becomes 
a  serious  consideration. 

Every  now  and  then  a  family  stronger-minded 
than  the  others,  or  with  serious  reasons  for  re 
turning  home  (a  daughter  to  bring  out  or  a  son 
to  put  into  business),  would  break  away  from 
its  somnolent  surroundings  and  re-cross  the 
Atlantic,  alternating  between  hope  and  fear.  It  is 
here  that  a  sad  fate  awaits  these  modern  Rip  Van 
Winkles.  They  find  their  native  cities  changed 
beyond  recognition.  (For  we  move  fast  in  these 
days.)  The  mother  gets  out  her  visiting  list  of 
ten  years  before  and  is  thunderstruck  to  find 
that  it  contains  chiefly  names  of  the  "dead,  the 
divorced,  and  defaulted."  The  waves  of  a  decade 
have  washed  over  her  place  and  the  world  she 
once  belonged  to  knows  her  no  more.  The  lead 
ers  of  her  day  on  whose  aid  she  counted  have 
retired  from  the  fray.  Younger,  and  alas!  un 
known  faces  sit  in  the  opera  boxes  and  around 
the  dinner  tables  where  before  she  had  found 
only  friends.  After  a  feeble  little  struggle  to  get 
again  into  the  "  swim,"  the  family  drifts  back  across 
the  ocean  into  the  quiet  back  water  of  a  con 
tinental  town,  and  goes  circling  around  with  the 
other  twigs  and  dry  leaves,  moral  flotsam  and 
jetsam,  thrown  aside  by  the  great  rush  of  the 
outside  world. 

For  the  parents  the  life  is  not  too  sad.  They 
have  had  their  day,  and  are,  perhaps,  a  little  glad 
in  their  hearts  of  a  quiet  old  age,  away  from  the 

[75] 


heat  and  sweat  of  the  battle;  but  for  the  younger 
generation  it  is  annihilation.  Each  year  their  cir 
cle  grows  smaller.  Death  takes  away  one  mem 
ber  after  another  of  the  family,  until  one  is  left 
alone  in  a  foreign  land  with  no  ties  around  her, 
or  with  her  far-away  "home,"  the  latter  more  a 
name  now  than  a  reality. 

A  year  or  two  ago  I  was  taking  luncheon  with 
our  consul  at  his  primitive  villa,  an  hour's  ride 
from  the  city  of  Tangier,  a  ride  made  on  don 
key-back,  as  no  roads  exist  in  that  sunny  land. 
After  our  coffee  and  cigars,  he  took  me  a  half- 
hour's  walk  into  the  wilderness  around  him  to 
call  on  his  nearest  neighbors,  whose  mode  of 
existence  seemed  a  source  of  anxiety  to  him.  I 
found  myself  in  the  presence  of  two  American 
ladies,  the  younger  being  certainly  not  less  than 
seventy-five.  To  my  astonishment  I  found  they 
had  been  living  there  some  thirty  years,  since  the 
death  of  their  parents,  in  an  isolation  and  remote 
ness  impossible  to  describe,  in  an  Arab  house, 
with  native  servants,  "the  world  forgetting,  by 
the  world  forgot."  Yet  these  ladies  had  names 
well  known  in  New  York  fifty  years  ago. 

The  glimpse  I  had  of  their  existence  made  me 
thoughtful  as  I  rode  home  in  the  twilight,  across 
a  suburb  none  too  safe  for  strangers.  What  had 
the  future  in  store  for  those  two?  Or,  worse  still, 
for  the  survivor  of  those  two?  In  contrast,  I  saw 
a  certain  humble  "home"  far  away  in  America, 
where  two  old  ladies  were  ending  their  lives 

[  76] 


SOCIAL     EXILES 


surrounded  by  loving  friends  and  relations,  hon 
ored  and  cherished  and  guarded  tenderly  from 
the  rude  world. 

In  big  cities  like  Paris  and  Rome  there  is  an 
other  class  of  the  expatriated,  the  wealthy  who 
have  left  their  homes  in  a  moment  of  pique  after 
the  failure  of  some  social  or  political  ambition; 
and  who  find  in  these  centres  the  recognition 
refused  them  at  home  and  for  which  their  souls 
thirsted. 

It  is  not  to  these  I  refer,  although  it  is  curious 
to  see  a  group  of  people  living  for  years  in  a  coun 
try  of  which  they,  half  the  time,  do  not  speak 
the  language  (beyond  the  necessities  of  house 
keeping  and  shopping),  knowing  but  few  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  seeing  none  of  the  society  of 
the  place,  their  acquaintance  rarely  going  beyond 
that  equivocal,  hybrid  class  that  surrounds  rich 
"strangers"  and  hangs  on  to  the  outer  edge  of 
the  grand  monde.  One  feels  for  this  latter  class 
merely  contempt,  but  one's  pity  is  reserved  for 
the  former.  What  object  lessons  some  lives  on 
the  Continent  would  be  to  impatient  souls  at 
home,  who  feel  discontented  with  their  surround 
ings,  and  anxious  to  break  away  and  wander 
abroad!  Let  them  think  twice  before  they  cut 
the  thousand  ties  it  has  taken  a  lifetime  to  form. 
Better  monotony  at  your  own  fireside,  my  friends, 
where  at  the  worst,  you  are  known  and  have 
your  place,  no  matter  how  small,  than  an  old 
age  among  strangers. 

[77] 


12 

CCi 


Seven  Ages"  of  Furniture 


THE  progress  through  life  of  active- 
minded  Americans  is  apt  to  be  a  series 
of  transformations.  At  each  succeeding 
phase  of  mental  development,  an  old  skin  drops 
from  their  growing  intelligence,  and  they  assimi 
late  the  ideas  and  tastes  of  their  new  condition, 
with  a  facility  and  completeness  unknown  to 
other  nations. 

One  series  of  metamorphoses  particularly 
amusing  to  watch  is,  that  of  an  observant,  re 
ceptive  daughter  of  Uncle  Sam  who,  aided  and 
followed  (at  a  distance)  by  an  adoring  husband, 
gradually  develops  her  excellent  brain,  and  rises 
through  fathoms  of  self-culture  and  purblind 
experiment,  to  the  surface  of  dilettantism  and 
connoisseurship.  One  can  generally  detect  the 
exact  stage  of  evolution  such  a  lady  has  reached 
by  the  bent  of  her  conversation,  the  books  she 
is  reading,  and,  last  but  not  least,  by  her  ma 
terial  surroundings;  no  outward  and  visible  signs 
reflecting  inward  and  spiritual  grace  so  clearly 
as  the  objects  people  collect  around  them  for 
the  adornment  of  their  rooms,  or  the  way  in 
which  those  rooms  are  decorated. 

A  few  years  ago,  when  a  young  man  and  his 
bride  set  up  housekeeping  on  their  own  account, 
the  "old  people"  of  both  families  seized  the 

[78] 


"SEFEN    trfGES"    OF    FURNITURE 

opportunity  to  unload  on  the  beginners  (under 
the  pretence  of  helping  them  along)  a  quantity 
of  furniture  and  belongings  that  had  (as  the 
shopkeepers  say)  "ceased  to  please  "their  original 
owners.  The  narrow  quarters  of  the  tyros  are 
encumbered  by  ungainly  sofas  and  ajm-chairs, 
most  probably  of  carved  rosewood.  Etageres  of 
the  same  lugubrious  material  grace  the  corners 
of  their  tiny  drawing-room,  the  bits  of  mirror 
inserted  between  the  shelves  distorting  the  im 
age  of  the  owners  into  headless  or  limbless 
phantoms.  Half  of  their  little  dining-room  is 
filled  with  a  black-walnut  sideboard,  ingeniously 
contrived  to  take  up  as  much  space  as  possible 
and  hold  nothing,  its  graceless  top  adorned  with 
a  stag's  head  carved  in  wood  and  imitation  ant 
lers. 

The  novices  in  their  innocence  live  contented 
amid  their  hideous  surroundings  for  a  year  or 
two,  when  the  wife  enters  her  second  epoch, 
which,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  we  will  call 
the  Japanese  period.  The  grim  furniture  gradu 
ally  disappears  under  a  layer  of  silk  and  gauze 
draperies,  the  bare  walls  blossom  with  paper 
umbrellas,  fans  are  nailed  in  groups  promiscu 
ously,  wherever  an  empty  space  offends  her  eye. 
Bows  of  ribbon  are  attached  to  every  possible 
protuberance  of  the  furniture.  Even  the  table 
service  is  not  spared.  I  remember  dining  at  a 
house  in  this  stage  of  its  artistic  development, 
where  the  marrow  bones  that  formed  one  course 

[79  ] 


<BYIV<AYS 


of  the  dinner  appeared  each  with  a  coquet 
tish  little  bow-knot  of  pink  ribbon  around  its 
neck. 

Once  launched  on  this  sea  of  adornment,  the 
housewife  soon  loses  her  bearings  and  decorates 
indiscriminately.  Her  old  evening  dresses  serve 
to  drape  the  mantelpieces,  and  she  passes  every 
spare  hour  embroidering,  braiding,  or  fringing 
some  material  to  adorn  her  rooms.  At  Christmas 
her  friends  contribute  specimens  of  their  handi 
work  to  the  collection. 

The  view  of  other  houses  and  other  decora 
tions  before  long  introduces  the  worm  of  discon 
tent  into  the  blossom  of  our  friend's  content 
ment.  The  fruit  of  her  labors  becomes  tasteless 
on  her  lips.  As  the  finances  of  the  family  are 
satisfactory,  the  re-arrangement  of  the  parlor 
floor  is  (at  her  suggestion)  confided  to  a  firm 
of  upholsterers,  who  make  a  clean  sweep  of  the 
rosewood  and  the  bow-knots,  and  retire,  after 
some  months  of  labor,  leaving  the  delighted 
wife  in  possession  of  a  suite  of  rooms  glittering 
with  every  monstrosity  that  an  imaginative  trades 
man,  spurred  on  by  unlimited  credit,  could  devise. 

The  wood  work  of  the  doors  and  mantels  is 
an  intricate  puzzle  of  inlaid  woods,  the  ceilings 
are  panelled  and  painted  in  complicated  designs. 
The  "parlor"  is  provided  with  a  complete  set 
of  neat,  old-gold  satin  furniture,  puffed  at  its 
angles  with  peacock-colored  plush. 

The  monumental  folding  doors  between  the 

[*>] 


"SEFEN    «fGES"    OF    FURNITURE 

long,  narrow  rooms  are  draped  with  the  same 
chaste  combination  of  stuffs. 

The  dining-room  blazes  with  a  gold  and  pur 
ple  wall  paper,  set  off  by  ebonized  wood  work 
and  furniture.  The  conscientious  contractor  has 
neglected  no  corner.  Every  square  inch  of  the 
ceilings,  walls,  and  floors  has  been  carved,  em 
bossed,  stencilled,  or  gilded  into  a  bewildering 
monotony. 

The  husband,  whose  affairs  are  rapidly  in 
creasing  on  his  hands,  has  no  time  to  attend  to 
such  insignificant  details  as  house  decoration, 
the  wife  has  perfect  confidence  in  the  taste  of 
the  firm  employed.  So  at  the  suggestion  of  the 
latter,  and  in  order  to  complete  the  beauty  of 
the  rooms,  a  Bouguereau,  a  Toulmouche  and  a 
couple  of  Schreyers  are  bought,  and  a  number 
of  modern  French  bronzes  scattered  about  on 
the  multicolored  cabinets.  Then,  at  last,  the 
happy  owners  of  all  this  splendor  open  their 
doors  to  the  admiration  of  their  friends. 

About  the  time  the  peacock  plush  and  the 
gilding  begin  to  show  signs  of  wear  and  tear, 
rumors  of  a  fresh  fashion  in  decoration  float 
across  from  England,  and  the  new  gospel  of 
the  beautiful  according  to  Clarence  Cook  is  first 
preached  to  an  astonished  nation. 

The  fortune  of  our  couple  continuing  to  de 
velop  with  pleasing  rapidity,  the  building  of  a 
country  house  is  next  decided  upon.  A  friend  of 
the  husband,  who  has  recently  started  out  as  an 
[8.  ] 


fef 


architect,  designs  them  a  picturesque  residence 
without  a  straight  line  on  its  exterior  or  a  square 
room  inside.  This  house  is  done  up  in  strict 
obedience  to  the  teachings  of  the  new  sect.  The 
dining-room  is  made  about  as  cheerful  as  the 
entrance  to  a  family  vault.  The  rest  of  the  house 
bears  a  close  resemblance  to  an  ecclesiastical  junk 
shop.  The  entrance  hall  is  filled  with  what  ap 
pears  to  be  a  communion  table  in  solid  oak,  and 
the  massive  chairs  and  settees  of  the  parlor 
suggest  the  withdrawing  room  of  Rowena, 
aesthetic  shades  of  momie-cloth  drape  deep-set 
windows,  where  anaemic  and  disjointed  females 
in  stained  glass  pluck  conventional  roses. 

To  each  of  these  successive  transitions  the  hus 
band  has  remained  obediently  and  tranquilly  in 
different.  He  has  in  his  heart  considered  them  all 
equally  unfitting  and  uncomfortable  and  sighed 
in  regretful  memory  of  a  deep,  old-fashioned 
arm-chair  that  sheltered  his  after-dinner  naps  in 
the  early  rosewood  period.  So  far  he  has  been 
as  clay  in  the  hands  of  his  beloved  wife,  but  the 
anaemic  ladies  and  the  communion  table  are  the 
last  drop  that  causes  his  cup  to  overflow.  He 
revolts  and  begins  to  take  matters  into  his  own 
hands  with  the  result  that  the  household  enters 
its  fifth  incarnation  under  his  guidance,  during 
which  everything  is  painted  white  and  all  the 
wall-papers  are  a  vivid  scarlet.  The  family  sit 
on  bogus  Chippendale  and  eat  offblue  and  white 
china. 


"SEFEN    ^GES"     OF    FURNITURE 

With  the  building  of  their  grand  new  house 
near  the  park  the  couple  rise  together  into  the 
sixth  cycle  of  their  development.  Having  trav 
elled  and  studied  the  epochs  by  this  time,  they 
can  tell  a  Louis  XIV.  from  a  Louis  XV.  room, 
and  recognize  that  mahogany  and  brass  sphinxes 
denote  furniture  of  the  Empire.  This  newly  ac 
quired  knowledge  is,  however,  vague  and  hazy. 
They  have  no  confidence  in  themselves,  so  give 
over  the  fitting  of  their  principal  floors  to  the 
New  York  branch  of  a  great  French  house.  Lit 
tle  is  talked  of  now  but  periods,  plans,  and  ele 
vations.  Under  the  guidance  of  the  French  firm, 
they  acquire  at  vast  expense,  faked  reproductions 
as  historic  furniture. 

The  spacious  rooms  are  sticky  with  new  gild 
ing,  and  the  flowered  brocades  of  the  hangings 
and  furniture  crackle  to  the  touch.  The  rooms 
were  not  designed  by  the  architect  to  receive  any 
special  kind  of  "treatment."  Immense  folding- 
doors  unite  the  salons,  and  windows  open  any 
where.  The  decorations  of  the  walls  have  been 
applied  like  a  poultice,  regardless  of  the  propor 
tions  of  the  rooms  and  the  distribution  of  the 
spaces. 

Building  and  decorating  are,  however,  the  best 
of  educations.  The  husband,  freed  at  last  from 
his  business  occupations,  finds  in  this  new  study 
an  interest  and  a  charm  unknown  to  him  before. 
He  and  his  wife  are  both  vaguely  disappointed 
when  their  resplendent  mansior  is  finished,  hav- 

[83  ] 


ing  already  outgrown  it,  and  recognize  that  in 
spite  of  correct  detail,  their  costly  apartments  no 
more  resemble  the  stately  and  simple  salons  seen 
abroad  than  the  cabin  of  a  Fall  River  boat  re 
sembles  the  Galerie  des  Glaces  at  Versailles.  The 
humiliating  knowledge  that  they  are  all  wrong 
breaks  upon  them,  as  it  is  doing  on  hundreds 
of  others,  at  the  same  time  as  the  desire  to  know 
more  and  appreciate  better  the  perfect  produc 
tions  of  this  art. 

A  seventh  and  last  step  is  before  them  but 
they  know  not  how  to  make  it.  A  surer  guide 
than  the  upholsterer  is,  they  know,  essential, 
but  their  library  contains  nothing  to  help  them. 
Others  possess  the  information  they  need,  yet 
they  are  ignorant  where  to  turn  for  what  they 
require. 

With  singular  appropriateness  a  volume  treat 
ing  of  this  delightful  "art"  has  this  season  ap- 
pearedatScribner's.  "The  Decoration  of  Houses" 
is  the  result  of  a  woman's  faultless  taste  collabo 
rating  with  a  man's  technical  knowledge.  Its 
mission  is  to  reveal  to  the  hundreds  who  have 
advanced  just  far  enough  to  find  that  they  can 
go  no  farther  alone,  truths  lying  concealed  be 
neath  the  surface.  It  teaches  that  consummate 
taste  is  satisfied  only  with  a  perfected  simplicity ; 
that  the  facades  of  a  house  must  be  the  envelope 
of  the  rooms  within  and  adapted  to  them,  as 
the  rooms  are  to  the  habits  and  requirements  of 
them  "that  dwell  therein;"  that  proportion  is 

[84] 


"SE7EN  vfGES"   OF    FURNITURE 

the  backbone  of  the  decorator's  art  and  that  su 
preme  elegance  is  fitness  and  moderation;  and, 
above  all,  that  an  attention  to  architectural  prin 
ciples  can  alone  lead  decoration  to  a  perfect  de 
velopment. 


[85] 


N°-  13 

Our  Elite  and  Public  Life 


THE  complaint  is  so  often  heard,  and 
seems  so  well  founded,  that  there  is  a 
growing  inclination,  not  only  among 
men  of  social  position,  but  also  among  our  best 
and  cleverest  citizens,  to  stand  aloof  from  pub 
lic  life,  and  this  reluctance  on  their  part  is  so 
unfortunate,  that  one  feels  impelled  to  seek 
out  the  causes  where  they  must  lie,  beneath  the 
surface.  At  a  first  glance  they  are  not  apparent. 
Why  should  not  the  honor  of  representing  one's 
town  or  locality  be  as  eagerly  sought  after  with 
us  as  it  is  by  English  or  French  men  of  posi 
tion?  That  such  is  not  the  case,  however,  is  evi 
dent. 

Speaking  of  this  the  other  evening,  over  my 
after-dinner  coffee,  with  a  high-minded  and  pub 
lic-spirited  gentleman,  who  not  long  ago  repre 
sented  our  country  at  a  European  court,  he 
advanced  two  theories  which  struck  me  as  being 
well  worth  repeating,  and  which  seemed  to  ac 
count  to  a  certain  extent  for  this  curious  absti 
nence. 

As  a  first  and  most  important  cause,  he  placed 
the  fact  that  neither  our  national  nor  (here  in 
New  York)  our  state  capital  coincides  with  our 
metropolis.  In  this  we  differ  from  England  and 
all  the  continental  countries.  The  result  is  not 

[  86  ] 


£LITE  AN<D  PUBLIC  LIFE 


difficult  to  perceive.  In  London,,  a  man  of  the 
world,  a  business  man,  or  a  great  lawyer,  who 
represents  a  locality  in  Parliament,  can  fulfil  his 
mandate  and  at  the  same  time  lead  his  usual 
life  among  his  own  set.  The  lawyer  or  the  busi 
ness  man  can  follow  during  the  day  his  profes 
sion,  or  those  affairs  on  which  he  depends  to 
support  his  family  and  his  position  in  the  world. 
Then,  after  dinner  (owing  to  the  peculiar  hours 
adopted  for  the  sittings  of  Parliament),  he  can 
take  his  place  as  a  law-maker.  If  he  be  a  Lon 
don-born  man,  he  in  no  way  changes  his  way 
of  life  or  that  of  his  family.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
he  be  a  county  magnate,  the  change  he  makes 
is  all  for  the  better,  as  it  takes  him  and  his  wife 
and  daughters  up  to  London,  the  haven  of  their 
longings,  and  the  centre  of  all  sorts  of  social 
dissipations  and  advancement. 

With  us,  it  is  exactly  the  contrary.  As  the 
District  of  Columbia  elects  no  one,  everybody 
living  in  Washington  officially  is  more  or  less 
expatriated,  and  the  social  life  it  offers  is  a  poor 
substitute  for  the  circle  which  most  families  leave 
to  go  there. 

That,  however,  is  not  the  most  important  side 
of  the  question.  Go  to  any  great  lawyer  of  either 
New  York  or  Chicago,  and  propose  sending 
him  to  Congress  or  the  Senate.  His  answer  is 
sure  to  be,  "I  cannot  afford  it.  I  know  it  is  an 
honor,  but  what  is  to  replace  the  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars  a  year  which  my  profession  brings 

[87] 


me  in,  not  to  mention  that  all  my  practice 
would  go  to  pieces  during  my  absence?"  Or 
again,  "How  should  I  dare  to  propose  to  my 
family  to  leave  one  of  the  great  centres  of  the 
country  to  go  and  vegetate  in  a  little  provincial 
city  like  Washington?  No,  indeed!  Public  life 
is  out  of  the  question  for  me!" 

Does  any  one  suppose  England  would  have 
the  class  of  men  she  gets  in  Parliament,  if  that 
body  sat  at  Bristol? 

Until  recently  the  man  who  occupied  the 
position  of  Lord  Chancellor  made  thirty  thou 
sand  pounds  a  year  by  his  profession  without 
interfering  in  any  way  with  his  public  duties, 
and  at  the  present  moment  a  recordership  in 
London  in  no  wise  prevents  private  practice. 
Were  these  gentlemen  Americans,  they  would 
be  obliged  to  renounce  all  hope  of  professional 
income  in  order  to  serve  their  country  at  its 
Capital. 

Let  us  glance  for  a  moment  at  the  other 
reason.  Owing  to  our  laws  (doubtless  perfectly 
reasonable,  and  which  it  is  not  my  intention  to 
criticise,)  a  man  must  reside  in  the  place  he 
represents.  H  ere  again  we  differ  from  all  other  con 
stitutional  countries.  Unfortunately,  our  clever 
young  men  leave  the  small  towns  of  their  birth 
and  flock  up  to  the  great  centres  as  offering 
wider  fields  for  their  advancement.  In  conse 
quence,  the  local  elector  finds  his  choice  limited 
to  what  is  left — the  intellectual  skimmed  milk, 

[  88  ] 


OU^   ELITE  AN<D   PUBLIC  LIFE 

of  which  the  cream  has  been  carried  to  New 
York  or  other  big  cities.  No  country  can  exist 
without  a  metropolis,  and  as  such  a  centre  by 
a  natural  law  of  assimilation  absorbs  the  best 
brains  of  the  country,  in  other  nations  it  has 
been  found  to  the  interests  of  all  parties  to  send 
down  brilliant  young  men  to  the  "provinces," 
to  be,  in  good  time,  returned  by  them  to  the 
national  assemblies. 

As  this  is  not  a  political  article  the  simple  indi 
cation  of  these  two  causes  will  suffice,  without 
entering  into  the  question  of  their  reasonableness 
or  of  their  justice.  The  social  bearing  of  such  a 
condition  is  here  the  only  side  of  the  question 
under  discussion;  it  is  difficult  to  over-rate  the 
influence  that  a  man's  family  exert  over  his  de 
cisions. 

Political  ambition  is  exceedingly  rare  among 
our  women  of  position;  when  the  American  hus 
band  is  bitten  with  it,  the  wife  submits  to,  rather 
than  abets,  his  inclinations.  In  most  cases  our 
women  are  not  cosmopolitan  enough  to  enjoy 
being  transplanted  far  away  from  their  friends 
and  relations,  even  to  fill  positions  of  import 
ance  and  honor.  A  New  York  woman  of  great 
frankness  and  intelligence,  who  found  herself 
recently  in  a  Western  city  under  these  circum 
stances,  said,  in  answer  to  a  flattering  remark 
that  "the  ladies  of  the  place  expected  her  to  be 
come  their  social  leader,"  "I  don't  see  any 
thing  to  lead,"  thus  very  plainly  expressing  her 


WdYS    & 


opinion  of  the  situation.  It  is  hardly  fair  to  ex 
pect  a  woman  accustomed  to  the  life  of  New 
York  or  the  foreign  capitals,  to  look  forward 
with  enthusiasm  to  a  term  of  years  passed  in 
Albany,  or  in  Washington. 

In  France  very  much  the  same  state  of  affairs 
has  been  reached  by  quite  a  different  route.  The 
aristocracy  detest  the  present  government,  and 
it  is  not  considered  "good  form"  by  them  to 
sit  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  or  to  accept  any 
but  diplomatic  positions.  They  condescend  to 
fill  the  latter  because  that  entails  living  away 
from  their  own  country,  as  they  feel  more  at 
ease  in  foreign  courts  than  at  the  Republican 
receptions  of  the  Elysee. 

There  is  a  deplorable  tendency  among  our 
self-styled  aristocracy  to  look  upon  their  circle 
as  a  class  apart.  They  separate  themselves  more 
each  year  from  the  life  of  the  country,  and  affect 
to  smile  at  any  of  their  number  who  honestly 
wish  to  be  of  service  to  the  nation.  They,  like 
the  French  aristocracy,  are  perfectly  willing,  even 
anxious,  to  fill  agreeable  diplomatic  posts  at  first- 
class  foreign  capitals,  and  are  naively  astonished 
when  their  offers  of  service  are  not  accepted  with 
gratitude  by  the  authorities  in  Washington.  But 
let  a  husband  propose  to  his  better  half  some 
humble  position  in  the  machinery  of  our  govern 
ment,  and  see  what  the  lady's  answer  will  be. 

The  opinion  prevails  among  a  large  class  of 
our  wealthy  and  cultivated  people,  that  to  go 

[90] 


OU^   ELITE  ANT)   PUBLIC  LIFE 

into  public  life  is  to  descend  to  duties  beneath 
them.  They  judge  the  men  who  occupy  such 
positions  with  insulting  severity,  classing  them 
in  their  minds  as  corrupt  and  self-seeking,  than 
which  nothing  can  be  more  childish  or  more  im 
becile.  Any  observer  who  has  lived  in  the  dif 
ferent  grades  of  society  will  quickly  renounce  the 
puerile  idea  that  sporting  or  intellectual  pursuits 
are  alone  worthy  of  a  gentleman's  attention.  This 
very  political  life,  which  appears  unworthy  of 
their  attention  to  so  many  men,  is,  in  reality, 
the  great  field  where  the  nations  of  the  world 
fight  out  their  differences,  where  the  seed  is  sown 
that  will  ripen  later  into  vast  crops  of  truth  and 
justice.  It  is  (if  rightly  regarded  and  honestly 
followed)  the  battle-ground  where  man's  highest 
qualities  are  put  to  their  noblest  use — that  of 
working  for  the  happiness  of  others. 


[9'  ] 


N°-  14 

The  Small  Summer  Hotel 


WE  certainly  are  the  most  eccentric  race 
on  the  surface  of  the  globe  and  ought 
to  be  a  delight  to  the  soul  of  an  ex 
plorer,  so  full  is  our  civilization  of  contradictions, 
unexplained  habits  and  curious  customs.  It  is 
quite  unnecessary  for  the  inquisitive  gentlemen 
who  pass  their  time  prying  into  other  people's 
affairs  and  then  returning  home  to  write  books 
about  their  discoveries,  to  risk  their  lives  and 
digestions  in  long  journeys  into  Central  Africa 
or  to  the  frozen  zones,  while  so  much  good  ma 
terial  lies  ready  to  their  hands  in  our  own  land. 
The  habits  of  the  "natives"  in  New  England 
alone  might  occupy  an  active  mind  indefinitely, 
offering  as  interesting  problems  as  any  to  be 
solved  by  penetrating  Central  Asia  or  visiting 
the  man-eating  tribes  of  Australia. 

Perhaps  one  of  our  scientific  celebrities,  before 
undertaking  his  next  long  voyage,  will  find  time 
to  make  observations  at  home  and  collecl:  suffi 
cient  data  to  answer  some  questions  that  have 
long  puzzled  my  unscientific  brain.  He  would  be 
doing  good  work.  Fame  and  honors  await  the 
man  who  can  explain  why,  for  instance,  sane 
Americans  of  the  better  class,  with  money  enough 
to  choose  their  surroundings,  should  pass  so 
much  of  their  time  in  hotels  and  boarding  houses. 


THE   SMdLL   S  UMM  E  ^  HO  TE  L 

There  must  be  a  reason  for  the  vogue  of  these 
retreats — every  adtion  has  a  cause,  however  re 
mote.  I  shall  await  with  the  deepest  interest  a 
paper  on  this  subject  from  one  of  our  great 
explorers,  untoward  circumstances  having  some 
time  ago  forced  me  to  pass  a  few  days  in  a  pop 
ular  establishment  of  this  class. 

During  my  visit  I  amused  myself  by  observ 
ing  the  inmates  and  trying  to  discover  why  they 
had  come  there.  So  far  as  I  could  find  out,  the 
greater  part  of  them  belonged  to  our  well-to-do 
class,  and  when  at  home  doubtless  lived  in  lux 
urious  houses  and  were  waited  on  by  trained  ser 
vants.  In  the  small  summer  hotel  where  I  met 
them,  they  were  living  in  dreary  little  ten  by 
twelve  foot  rooms,  containing  only  the  absolute 
necessities  of  existence,  a  wash-stand,  a  bureau, 
two  chairs  and  a  bed.  And  such  a  bed!  One 
mattress  about  four  inches  thick  over  squeaking 
slats,  cotton  sheets,  so  nicely  calculated  to  the 
size  of  the  bed  that  the  slightest  move  on  the 
part  of  the  sleeper  would  detach  them  from  their 
moorings  and  undo  the  housemaid's  work;  two 
limp,  discouraged  pillows  that  had  evidently 
been  "banting,"  and  a  few  towels  a  foot  long 
with  a  surface  like  sand-paper,  completed  the 
fittings  of  the  room.  Baths  were  unknown,  and 
hot  water  was  a  luxury  distributed  sparingly  by 
a  capricious  handmaiden.  It  is  only  fair  to  add 
that  everything  in  the  room  was  perfectly  clean, 
as  was  the  coarse  table  linen  in  the  dining  room 

[93] 


<BYW*AYS 


The  meals  were  in  harmony  with  the  rooms 
and  furniture,  consisting  only  of  the  strid  neces 
sities,  cooked  with  a  Spartan  disregard  for  such 
sybarite  foibles  as  seasoning  or  dressing.  I  be 
lieve  there  was  a  substantial  meal  somewhere  in 
the  early  morning  hours,  but  I  never  succeeded 
in  getting  down  in  time  to  inspect  it.  By  success 
ful  bribery,  I  induced  one  of  the  village  belles, 
who  served  at  table,  to  bring  a  cup  of  coffee 
to  my  room.  The  first  morning  it  appeared  al 
ready  poured  out  in  the  cup,  with  sugar  and 
cold  milk  added  at  her  discretion.  At  one  o'clock 
a  dinner  was  served,  consisting  of  soup  (occasion 
ally),  one  meat  dish  and  attendant  vegetables,  a 
meagre  dessert,  and  nothing  else.  At  half-past 
six  there  was  an  equally  rudimentary  meal,  called 
"tea,"  after  which  no  further  food  was  distri 
buted  to  the  inmates,  who  all,  however,  seemed 
perfectly  contented  with  this  arrangement.  In 
fad:  they  apparently  looked  on  the  ad:  of  eating 
as  a  disagreeable  task,  to  be  hurried  through  as 
soon  as  possible  that  they  might  return  to  their 
aimless  rocking  and  chattering. 

Instead  of  dinner  hour  being  the  feature  of 
the  day,  uniting  people  around  an  attradive 
table,  and  attended  by  conversation,  and  the  meal 
lasting  long  enough  for  one's  food  to  be  properly 
eaten,  it  was  rushed  through  as  though  we  were 
all  trying  to  catch  a  train.  Then,  when  the  meal 
was  over,  the  boarders  relapsed  into  apathy 
again. 

[94] 


THE   SM^fLL   SUMMED  HOTEL 

No  one  ever  called  this  hospitable  home  a 
boarding-house,  for  the  proprietor  was  furious 
if  it  was  given  that  name.  He  also  scorned  the 
idea  of  keeping  a  hotel.  So  that  I  never  quite 
understood  in  what  relation  he  stood  toward  us. 
He  certainly  considered  himself  our  host,  and 
ignored  the  financial  side  of  the  question  severely. 
In  order  not  to  hurt  his  feelings  by  speaking  to 
him  of  money,  we  were  obliged  to  get  our  bills 
by  strategy  from  a  male  subordinate.  Mine  host 
and  his  family  were  apparently  unaware  that 
there  were  people  under  their  roof  who  paid 
them  for  board  and  lodging.  We  were  all  looked 
upon  as  guests  and  "entertained,"  and  our  rights 
impartially  ignored. 

Nothing,  I  find,  is  so  distinctive  of  New 
England  as  this  graceful  veiling  of  the  practical 
side  of  life.  The  landlady  always  reminded  me, 
by  her  manner,  of  Barrie's  description  of  the 
bill-sticker's  wife  who  "cut"  her  husband  when 
she  chanced  to  meet  him  "professionally"  en 
gaged.  As  a  result  of  this  extreme  detachment 
from  things  material,  the  house  ran  itself,  or 
was  run  by  incompetent  Irish  and  negro  "help." 
There  were  no  bells  in  the  rooms,  which  sim 
plified  the  service,  and  nothing  could  be  ordered 
out  of  meal  hours. 

The  material  defects  in  board  and  lodging 
sink,  however,  into  insignificance  before  the 
moral  and  social  unpleasantness  of  an  estab 
lishment  such  as  this.  All  ages,  all  conditions, 

[95] 


and  all  creeds  are  promiscuously  huddled  to 
gether.  It  is  impossible  to  choose  whom  one 
shall  know  or  whom  avoid.  A  horrible  bur 
lesque  of  family  life  is  enacted,  with  all  its  in 
conveniences  and  none  of  its  sanctity.  People 
from  different  cities,  with  different  interests  and 
standards,  are  expected  to  "chum"  together  in 
an  intimacy  that  begins  with  the  eight  o'clock 
breakfast  and  ends  only  when  all  retire  for  the 
night.  No  privacy,  no  isolation  is  allowed.  If 
you  take  a  book  and  begin  to  read  in  a  remote 
corner  of  a  parlor  or  piazza,  some  idle  matron 
or  idiotic  girl  will  tranquilly  invade  your  poor 
little  bit  of  privacy  and  gabble  of  her  affairs  and 
the  day's  gossip.  There  is  no  escape  unless  you 
mount  to  your  ten-by-twelve  cell  and  sit  (like 
the  Premiers  of  England  when  they  visit  Bal 
moral)  on  the  bed,  to  do  your  writing,  for  want 
of  any  other  conveniences.  Even  such  retirement 
is  resented  by  the  boarders.  You  are  thought  to 
be  haughty  and  to  give  yourself  airs  if  you  do 
not  sit  for  twelve  consecutive  hours  each  day  in 
unending  conversation  with  them. 

When  one  reflects  that  thousands  of  our 
countrymen  pass  at  least  one-half  of  their  lives 
in  these  asylums,  and  that  thousands  more  in 
America  know  no  other  homes,  but  move  from 
one  hotel  to  another,  while  the  same  outlay 
would  procure  them  cosy,  cheerful  dwellings,  it 
does  seem  as  if  these  modern  Arabs,  Holmes's 
"Folding  Bed-ouins,"  were  gradually  returning 

[96] 


THE   SM^LL   SUMMED  HOTEL 

to  prehistoric  habits  and  would  end  by  eating 
roots  promiscuously  in  caves. 

The  contradiction  appears  more  marked  the 
longer  one  reflects  on  the  love  of  independence 
and  impatience  of  all  restraint  that  characterize 
our  race.  If  such  an  institution  had  been  con 
ceived  by  people  of  the  Old  World,  accustomed 
to  moral  slavery  and  to  a  thousand  petty  tyran 
nies,  it  would  not  be  so  remarkable,  but  that 
we,  of  all  the  races  of  the  earth,  should  have 
created  a  form  of  torture  unknown  to  Louis  XI. 
or  to  the  Spanish  Inquisitors,  is  indeed  inexpli 
cable!  Outside  of  this  happy  land  the  institution 
is  unknown.  The  pension  when  it  exists  abroad, 
is  only  an  exotic  growth  for  an  American  market. 
Among  European  nations  it  is  undreamed  of; 
the  poorest  when  they  travel  take  furnished 
rooms,  where  they  are  served  in  private,  or  go 
to  restaurants  or  table  d'hotes  for  their  meals. 
In  a  strictly  continental  hotel  the  public  parlor 
does  not  exist.  People  do  not  travel  to  make 
acquaintances,  but  for  health  or  recreation,  or  to 
improve  their  minds.  The  enforced  intimacy  of 
our  American  family  house,  with  its  attendant 
quarrelling  and  back-biting,  is  an  infliction  of 
which  Europeans  are  in  happy  ignorance. 

One  explanation,  only,  occurs  to  me,  which  is 
that  among  New  England  people,  largely  de 
scended  from  Puritan  stock,  there  still  lingers 
some  blind  impulse  at  self-mortification,  an 
hereditary  inclination  to  make  this  life  as  dis- 

[97] 


WrfYS    fcf 


agreeable  as  possible  by  self-immolation.  Their 
ancestors,  we  are  told  by  Macaulay,  suppressed 
bull  baiting,  not  because  it  hurt  the  bull,  but 
because  it  gave  pleasure  to  the  people.  Here  in 
New  England  they  refused  the  Roman  dogma 
of  Purgatory  and  then  with  complete  inconsist 
ency,  invented  the  boarding-house,  in  order, 
doubtless,  to  take  as  much  of  the  joy  as  possible 
out  of  this  life,  as  a  preparation  for  endless  bliss 
in  the  next. 


[98] 


N°'    15 

A  False  Start 


HAVING  had,  during  a  wandering  exist 
ence,  many  opportunities  of  observing 
my  compatriots  away  from  home  and 
familiar  surroundings,  in  various  circles  of  cos 
mopolitan  society,  at  foreign  courts,  in  diplo 
matic  life,  or  unofficial  capacities,  I  am  forced  to 
acknowledge  that  whereas  my  countrywoman 
invariably  assumed  her  new  position  with  grace 
and  dignity,  my  countryman,  in  the  majority  of 
cases,  appeared  at  a  disadvantage. 

I  take  particular  pleasure  in  making  this  tri 
bute  to  my  "sisters'"  tad:  and  wit,  as  I  have 
been  accused  of  being  "hard"  on  American  wo 
men,  and  some  half-humorous  criticisms  have 
been  taken  seriously  by  over-susceptible  wo 
men  — doubtless  troubled  with  guilty  consciences 
for  nothing  is  more  exacl:  than  the  old  French 
proverb,  "It  is  only  the  truth  that  wounds." 

The  fad:  remains  clear,  however,  that  Ameri 
can  men,  as  regards  polish,  facility  in  expressing 
themselves  in  foreign  languages,  the  arts  of 
pleasing  and  entertaining,  in  short,  the  thousand 
and  one  nothings  composing  that  agreeable 
whole,  a  cultivated  member  of  society,  are  infe 
rior  to  their  womenkind.  I  feel  sure  that  all 
Americans  who  have  travelled  and  have  seen 
their  compatriot  in  his  social  relations  with  for- 

[99] 


eigners,  will  agree  with  this,  reluctant  as  I  am  to 
acknowledge  it. 

That  a  sister  and  brother  brought  up  together, 
under  the  same  influences,  should  later  differ  to 
this  extent  seems  incredible.  It  is  just  this  that 
convinces  me  we  have  made  a  false  start  as  re 
gards  the  education  and  ambitions  of  our  young 
men. 

To  find  the  reasons  one  has  only  to  glance 
back  at  our  past.  After  the  struggle  that  insured 
our  existence  as  a  united  nation,  came  a  period 
of  great  prosperity.  When  both  seemed  secure, 
we  did  not  pause  and  take  breath,  as  it  were, 
before  entering  a  new  epoch  of  development, 
but  dashed  ahead  on  the  old  lines.  It  is  here  that 
we  got  on  the  wrong  road.  Naturally  enough  too, 
for  our  peculiar  position  on  this  continent,  far 
away  from  the  centres  of  cultivation  and  art, 
surrounded  only  by  less  successful  states  with 
which  to  compare  ourselves,  has  led  us  into  form 
ing  erroneous  ideas  as  to  the  proportions  of 
things,  causing  us  to  exaggerate  the  value  of 
material  prosperity  and  undervalue  matters  of 
infinitely  greater  importance,  which  have  been 
neglected  in  consequence. 

A  man  who,  after  fighting  through  our  late 
war,  had  succeeded  in  amassing  a  fortune,  nat 
urally  wished  his  son  to  follow  him  on  the  only 
road  in  which  it  had  ever  occurred  to  him  that 
success  was  of  any  importance.  So  beyond  giv 
ing  the  boy  a  college  education,  which  he  had 


not  enjoyed,  his  ambition  rarely  went;  his  idea 
being  to  make  a  practical  business  man  of  him, 
or  a  lawyer,  that  he  could  keep  the  estate  to 
gether  more  intelligently.  In  thousands  of  cases, 
of  course,  individual  taste  and  bent  over-ruled 
this  influence,  and  a  career  of  science  or  art  was 
chosen ;  but  in  the  mass  of  the  American  people, 
it  was  firmly  implanted  that  the  pursuit  of 
wealth  was  the  only  occupation  to  which  a  rea 
sonable  human  being  could  devote  himself.  A 
young  man  who  was  not  in  some  way  engaged 
in  increasing  his  income  was  looked  upon  as  a 
very  undesirable  member  of  society,  and  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  to  come  to  harm. 

Millionaires  declined  to  send  their  sons  to 
college,  saying  they  would  get  ideas  there  that 
would  unfit  them  for  business,  to  Paterfamilias 
the  one  object  of  life.  Under  such  fostering  influ 
ences,  the  ambitions  in  our  country  have  grad 
ually  given  way  to  money  standards  and  the 
false  start  has  been  made !  Leaving  aside  at  once 
the  question  of  money  in  its  relation  to  our  pol 
itics  (although  it  would  be  a  fruitful  subject  for 
moralizing),  and  confining  ourselves  strictly  to 
the  social  side  of  life,  we  soon  see  the  results  of 
this  mammon  worship. 

In  England  (although  Englishmen  have  been 
contemptuously  called  the  shop-keepers  of  the 
world)  the  extension  and  maintenance  of  their 
vast  empire  is  the  mainspring  which  keeps  the 
great  machine  in  movement.  And  one  sees  tens 


W^TS 


of  thousands  of  well-born  and  delicately-bred 
men  cheerfully  entering  the  many  branches  of 
public  service  where  the  hope  of  wealth  can 
never  come,  and  retiring  on  pensions  or  half- 
pay  in  the  strength  of  their  middle  age,  appar 
ently  without  a  regret  or  a  thought  beyond 
their  country's  well-being. 

In  France,  where  the  passionate  love  of  their 
own  land  has  made  colonial  extension  impossible, 
the  modern  Frenchman  of  education  is  more 
interested  in  the  yearly  exhibition  at  the  Salon  or 
in  a  successful  play  at  the  Franfais,  than  in  the 
stock  markets  of  the  world. 

Would  that  our  young  men  had  either  of 
these  bents!  They  have  copied  from  England 
a  certain  love  of  sport,  without  the  English 
climate  or  the  calm  of  country  and  garrison  life, 
to  make  these  sports  logical  and  necessary.  As 
the  young  American  millionaire  thinks  he  must 
go  on  increasing  his  fortune,  we  see  the  anomaly 
of  a  man  working  through  a  summer's  day  in 
Wall  Street,  then  dashing  in  a  train  to  some 
suburban  club,  and  appearing  a  half-hour  later 
on  the  polo  field.  Next  to  wealth,  sport  has  be 
come  the  ambition  of  the  wealthy  classes,  and 
has  grown  so  into  our  college  life  that  the  num 
ber  of  students  in  the  freshman  class  of  our 
great  universities  is  seriously  influenced  by  that 
institution's  losses  or  gains  at  football. 

What  is  the  result  of  all  this?  A  young  man 
starts  in  life  with  the  firm  intention  of  making 


F^LSE 


a  great  deal  of  money.  If  he  has  any  time  left 
from  that  occupation  he  will  devote  it  to  sport. 
Later  in  life,  when  he  has  leisure  and  travels,  or 
is  otherwise  thrown  with  cultivated  strangers, 
he  must  naturally  be  at  a  disadvantage.  "  Shop," 
he  cannot  talk;  he  knows  that  is  vulgar.  Music, 
art,  the  drama,  and  literature  are  closed  books 
to  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  may  have  a 
box  on  the  grand  tier  at  the  opera  and  a  couple 
of  dozen  high-priced  "masterpieces"  hanging 
around  his  drawing-rooms.  If  he  is  of  a  finer 
clay  than  the  general  run  of  his  class,  he  will 
realize  dimly  that  somehow  the  goal  has  been 
missed  in  his  life  race.  His  chase  after  the  ma 
terial  has  left  him  so  little  time  to  cultivate  the 
ideal,  that  he  has  prepared  himself  a  sad  and 
aimless  old  age;  unless  he  can  find  pleasure  in 
doing  as  did  a  man  I  have  been  told  about, 
who,  receiving  half  a  dozen  millions  from  his 
father's  estate,  conceived  the  noble  idea  of  in 
creasing  them  so  that  he  might  leave  to  each  of 
his  four  children  as  much  as  he  had  himself  re 
ceived.  With  the  strictest  economy,  and  by  sup 
pressing  out  of  his  life  and  that  of  his  children 
all  amusements  and  superfluous  outlay,  he  has 
succeeded  now  for  many  years  in  living  on  the 
income  of  his  income.  Time  will  never  hang 
heavy  on  this  Harpagon's  hands.  He  is  a  per 
fectly  happy  individual,  but  his  conversation  is 
hardly  of  a  kind  to  attract,  and  it  may  be  doubted 
if  the  rest  of  the  family  are  as  much  to  be  envied. 

L  I03  ] 


An  artist  who  had  lived  many  years  of  his 
life  in  Paris  and  London  was  speaking  the  other 
day  of  a  curious  phase  he  had  remarked  in  our 
American  life.  He  had  been  accustomed  over 
there  to  have  his  studio  the  meeting-place  of 
friends,  who  would  drop  in  to  smoke  and  lounge 
away  an  hour,  chatting  as  he  worked.  To  his 
astonishment,  he  tells  me  that  since  he  has  been 
in  New  York  not  one  of  the  many  men  he  knows 
has  ever  passed  an  hour  in  his  rooms.  Is  not 
that  a  significant  fact?  Another  remark  which 
points  its  own  moral  was  repeated  to  me  re 
cently.  A  foreigner  visiting  here,  to  whom  Ameri 
can  friends  were  showing  the  sights  of  our  city, 
exclaimed  at  last:  "You  have  not  pointed  out 
to  me  any  celebrities  except  millionaires.  £Do 
you  see  that  man?  he  is  worth  ten  millions. 
Look  at  that  house!  it  cost  one  million  dollars, 
and  there  are  pictures  in  it  worth  over  three 
million  dollars.  That  trotter  cost  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars,'  etc."  Was  he  not  right?  And 
does  it  not  give  my  reader  a  shudder  to  see  in 
black  and  white  the  phrases  that  are,  neverthe 
less,  so  often  on  our  lips? 

This  levelling  of  everything  to  its  cash  value 
is  so  ingrained  in  us  that  we  are  unconscious  of 
it,  as  we  are  of  using  slang  or  local  expressions 
until  our  attention  is  called  to  them.  I  was  pres 
ent  once  at  a  farce  played  in  a  London  theatre, 
where  the  audience  went  into  roars  of  laughter 
every  time  the  stage  American  said,  "Why,  cer- 

[   I04  ] 


F^LSE 


tainly."  I  was  indignant,  and  began  explaining 
to  my  English  friend  that  we  never  used  such 
an  absurd  phrase.  "Are  you  sure?"  he  asked. 
"Why,  certainly,"  I  said,  and  stopped,  catching 
the  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

It  is  very  much  the  same  thing  with  money. 
We  do  not  notice  how  often  it  slips  into  the 
conversation.  "Out  of  the  fullness  of  the  heart 
the  mouth  speaketh."  Talk  to  an  American  of 
a  painter  and  the  charm  of  his  work.  He  will  be 
sure  to  ask,  "Do  his  pictures  sell  well?"  and  will 
lose  all  interest  if  you  say  he  can't  sell  them  at 
all.  As  if  that  had  anything  to  do  with  it! 

Remembering  the  well-known  anecdote  of 
Schopenhauer  and  the  gold  piece  which  he  used 
to  put  beside  his  plate  at  the  table  cFhote,  where 
he  ate,  surrounded  by  the  young  officers  of  the 
German  army,  and  which  was  to  be  given  to  the 
poor  the  first  time  he  heard  any  conversation 
that  was  not  about  promotion  or  women,  I  have 
been  tempted  to  try  the  experiment  in  our  clubs, 
changing  the  subjects  to  stocks  and  sport,  and 
feel  confident  that  my  contributions  to  charity 
would  not  ruin  me. 

All  this  has  had  the  result  of  making  our  men 
dull  companions;  after  dinner,  or  at  a  country 
house,  if  the  subject  they  love  is  tabooed,  they 
talk  of  nothing!  It  is  sad  for  a  rich  man  (un 
less  his  mind  has  remained  entirely  between  the 
leaves  of  his  ledger)  to  realize  that  money  really 
buys  very  little,  and  above  a  certain  amount  can 


give  no  satisfaction  in  proportion  to  its  bulk,  be 
yond  that  delight  which  comes  from  a  sense  of 
possession.  Croesus  often  discovers  as  he  grows 
old  that  he  has  neglected  to  provide  himself  with 
the  only  thing  that  "is  a  joy  for  ever" — a  cul 
tivated  intellect — in  order  to  amass  a  fortune 
that  turns  to  ashes,  when  he  has  time  to  ask  of 
it  any  of  the  pleasures  and  resources  he  fondly 
imagined  it  would  afford  him.  Like  Talleyrand's 
young  man  who  would  not  learn  whist,  he  finds 
that  he  has  prepared  for  himself  a  dreadful  old 
age! 


[  106] 


N°-i6 

A  Holy  Land 


NOT  long  ago  an  article  came  under  my 
notice  descriptive  of  the  neighborhood 
around  Grant's  tomb  and  the  calm  that 
midsummer  brings  to  that  vicinity,  laughingly 
referred  to  as  the  "Holy  Land." 

As  careless  fingers  wandering  over  the  strings 
of  a  violin  may  unintentionally  strike  a  chord, 
so  the  writer  of  those  lines,  all  unconsciously, 
with  a  jest,  set  vibrating  a  world  of  tender  mem 
ories  and  associations ;  for  the  region  spoken  of 
is  truly  a  holy  land  to  me,  the  playground  of 
my  youth,  and  connected  with  the  sweetest  ties 
that  can  bind  one's  thoughts  to  the  past. 

Ernest  Renan  in  his  Souvenirs  cfEnfance,  tells 
of  a  Brittany  legend,  firmly  believed  in  that  wild 
land,  of  the  vanished  city  of  "Is,"  which  ages 
ago  disappeared  beneath  the  waves.  The  peas 
ants  still  point  out  at  a  certain  place  on  the  coast 
the  site  of  the  fabled  city,  and  the  fishermen 
tell  how  during  great  storms  they  have  caught 
glimpses  of  its  belfries  and  ramparts  far  down 
between  the  waves;  and  assert  that  on  calm 
summer  nights  they  can  hear  the  bells  chiming 
up  from  those  depths.  I  also  have  a  vanished 
"Is"  in  my  heart,  and  as  I  grow  older,  I  love  to 
listen  to  the  murmurs  that  float  up  from  the  past. 
[  107  ] 


W<AYS    fcf 


They  seem  to  come  from  an  infinite  distance, 
almost  like  echoes  from  another  life. 

At  that  enchanted  time  we  lived  during  the 
summers  in  an  old  wooden  house  my  father  had 
re-arranged  into  a  fairly  comfortable  dwelling.  A 
tradition,  which  no  one  had  ever  taken  the  trouble 
to  verify,  averred  that  Washington  had  once 
lived  there,  which  made  that  hero  very  real  to 
us.  The  picturesque  old  house  stood  high  on  a 
slope  where  the  land  rises  boldly;  with  an  ad 
mirable  view  of  distant  mountain,  river  and  op 
posing  Palisades. 

The  new  Riverside  drive  (which,  by  the  bye, 
should  make  us  very  lenient  toward  the  men 
who  robbed  our  city  a  score  of  years  ago,  for 
they  left  us  that  vast  work  in  atonement),  has 
so  changed  the  neighborhood  it  is  impossible 
now  for  pious  feet  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  those 
childish  shrines.  One  house,  however,  still  stands 
as  when  it  was  our  nearest  neighbor.  It  had  shel 
tered  General  Gage,  land  for  many  acres  around 
had  belonged  to  him.  He  was  an  enthusiastic 
gardener,  and  imported,  among  a  hundred  other 
fruits  and  plants,  the  "Queen  Claude"  plum 
from  France,  which  was  successfully  acclimated 
on  his  farm.  In  New  York  a  plum  of  that  kind 
is  still  called  a  "green  gage."  The  house  has 
changed  hands  many  times  since  we  used  to 
play  around  the  Grecian  pillars  of  its  portico. 
A  recent  owner,  dissatisfied  doubtless  with  its 
classic  simplicity,  has  painted  it  a  cheerful  mus- 

[  108  ] 


HOLY    L^tND 


tard  color  and  crowned  it  with  a  fine  new  Man 
sard  roof.  Thus  disfigured,  and  shorn  of  its 
surrounding  trees,  the  poor  old  house  stands 
blankly  by  the  roadside,  reminding  one  of  the 
Greek  statue  in  Anstey's  "Painted  Venus"  after 
the  London  barber  had  decorated  her  to  his  taste. 
When  driving  by  there  now,  I  close  my  eyes. 

Another  house,  where  we  used  to  be  taken  to 
play,  was  that  of  Audubon,  in  the  park  of  that 
name.  Many  a  rainy  afternoon  I  have  passed 
with  his  children  choosing  our  favorite  birds  in 
the  glass  cases  that  filled  every  nook  and  corner 
of  the  tumble-down  old  place,  or  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  the  enormous  volumes  he  would 
so  graciously  take  down  from  their  places  for 
our  amusement.  I  often  wonder  what  has  be 
come  of  those  vast  in-folios^  and  if  any  one 
ever  opens  them  now  and  admires  as  we  did 
the  glowing  colored  plates  in  which  the  old  or 
nithologist  took  such  pride.  There  is  something 
infinitely  sad  in  the  idea  of  a  collection  of  books 
slowly  gathered  together  at  the  price  of  priva 
tions  and  sacrifices,  cherished,  fondled,  lovingly 
read,  and  then  at  the  owner's  death,  coldly  sent 
away  to  stand  for  ever  unopened  on  the  shelves 
of  some  public  library.  It  is  like  neglecting  poor 
dumb  children! 

An  event  that  made  a  profound  impression 
on  my  childish  imagination  occurred  while  my 
father,  who  was  never  tired  of  improving  our 
little  domain,  was  cutting  a  pathway  down  the 

[  I09  ] 


<BYW<AYS 


steep  side  of  the  slope  to  the  river.  A  great 
slab,  dislodged  by  a  workman's  pick,  fell,  dis 
closing  the  grave  of  an  Indian  chief.  In  a  low 
archway  or  shallow  cave  sat  the  skeleton  of  the 
chieftain,  his  bows  and  arrows  arranged  around 
him  on  the  ground,  mingled  with  fragments  of 
an  elaborate  costume,  of  which  little  remained 
but  the  bead-work.  That  it  was  the  tomb  of  a 
man  great  among  his  people  was  evident  from 
the  care  with  which  the  grave  had  been  prepared 
and  then  hidden,  proving  how,  hundreds  of 
years  before  our  civilization,  another  race  had 
chosen  this  noble  cliff  and  stately  river  land 
scape  as  the  fitting  framework  for  a  great  war 
rior's  tomb. 

This  discovery  made  no  little  stir  in  the 
scientific  world  of  that  day.  Hundreds  came  to 
see  it,  and  as  photography  had  not  then  come 
into  the  world,  many  drawings  were  made  and 
casts  taken,  and  finally  the  whole  thing  was  re 
moved  to  the  rooms  of  the  Historical  Society. 
From  that  day  the  lonely  little  path  held  an 
awful  charm  for  us.  Our  childish  readings  of 
Cooper  had  developed  in  us  that  love  of  the 
Indian  and  his  wild  life,  so  characteristic  of 
boyhood  thirty  years  ago.  On  still  summer  af 
ternoons,  the  place  had  a  primeval  calm  that 
froze  the  young  blood  in  our  veins.  Although 
we  prided  ourselves  on  our  quality  as  "braves," 
and  secretly  pined  to  be  led  on  the  war-path,  we 
were  shy  of  walking  in  that  vicinity  in  daylight, 

[  no] 


HOLT 


and  no  power  on  earth,  not  even  the  offer  of 
the  tomahawk  or  snow-shoes  for  which  our  souls 
longed,  would  have  taken  us  there  at  night. 

A  place  connected  in  my  memory  with  a 
tragic  association  was  across  the  river  on  the 
last  southern  slope  of  the  Palisades.  Here  we 
stood  breathless  while  my  father  told  the  brief 
story  of  the  duel  between  Burr  and  Hamilton, 
and  showed  us  the  rock  stained  by  the  younger 
man's  life-blood.  In  those  days  there  was  a 
simple  iron  railing  around  the  spot  where 
Hamilton  had  expired,  but  of  later  years  I 
have  been  unable  to  find  any  trace  of  the  place. 
The  tide  of  immigration  has  brought  so  deep  a 
deposit  of  "saloons"  and  suburban  "balls"  that 
the  very  face  of  the  land  is  changed,  old  lovers 
of  that  shore  know  it  no  more.  Never  were  the 
environs  of  a  city  so  wantonly  and  recklessly 
degraded.  Municipalities  have  vied  with  million 
aires  in  soiling  and  debasing  the  exquisite  shores 
of  our  river,  that,  thirty  years  ago,  were  unri 
valled  the  world  over. 

The  glamour  of  the  past  still  lies  for  me  upon 
this  landscape,  in  spite  of  its  many  defacements. 
The  river  whispers  of  boyish  boating  parties, 
and  the  woods  recall  a  thousand  childish  hopes 
and  fears,  resolute  departures  to  join  the  pirates, 
or  the  red  men  in  their  strongholds — journeys 
boldly  carried  out  until  twilight  cooled  our  cour 
age  and  the  supper-hour  proved  a  stronger  temp 
tation  than  war  and  carnage. 

L  «i  ] 


When  I  sat  down  this  summer  evening  to 
write  a  few  lines  about  happy  days  on  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson,  I  hardly  realized  how  sweet 
those  memories  were  to  me.  The  rewriting  of 
the  old  names  has  evoked  from  their  long  sleep 
so  many  loved  faces.  Arms  seem  reaching  out 
to  me  from  the  past.  The  house  is  very  still  to 
night.  I  seem  to  be  nearer  my  loved  dead  than 
to  the  living.  The  bells  of  my  lost  "Is"  are 
ringing  clear  in  the  silence. 


*1^^ 

N°-  17 

Royalty  at  Play 


FEW  more  amusing  sights  are  to  be  seen 
in  these  days,  than  that  of  crowned  heads 
running  away  from  their  dull  old  courts 
and  functions,  roughing  it  in  hotels  and  villas, 
gambling,  yachting  and  playing  at  being  rich 
nobodies.  With  much  intelligence  they  have  all 
chosen  the  same  Republican  playground,  where 
visits  cannot  possibly  be  twisted  into  meaning 
any  new  "combination"  or  political  move,  thus 
assuring  themselves  the  freedom  from  care  or 
responsibility,  that  seems  to  be  the  aim  of  their 
existence.  Alongside  of  well-to-do  Royalties  in 
good  paying  situations,  are  those  out  of  a  job, 
who  are  looking  about  for  a  "place."  One  can 
not  take  an  afternoon's  ramble  any  where  between 
Cannes  and  Mentone  without  meeting  a  half- 
dozen  of  these  magnates. 

The  other  day,  in  one  short  walk,  I  ran  across 
three  Empresses,  two  Queens,  and  an  Heir- 
apparent,  and  then  fled  to  my  hotel,  fearing  to 
be  unfitted  for  America,  if  I  went  on  "keeping 
such  company."  They  are  knowing  enough,  these 
wandering  great  ones,  and  after  trying  many 
places  have  hit  on  this  charming  coast  as  offer 
ing  more  than  any  other  for  their  comfort  and 
enjoyment.  The  vogue  of  these  sunny  shores 
dates  from  their  annexation  to  France,  —  a  price 

[  "3  ] 


Victor  Emmanuel  reluctantly  paid  for  French  help 
in  his  war  with  Austria.  Napoleon  III.'s  demand 
for  Savoy  and  this  littoral,  was  first  made  known 
to  Victor  Emmanuel  at  a  state  ball  at  Genoa. 
Savoy  was  his  birthplace  and  his  home!  The  King 
broke  into  a  wild  temper,  cursing  the  French 
Emperor  and  making  insulting  allusions  to  his 
parentage,  saying  he  had  not  one  drop  of  Bona 
parte  blood  in  his  veins.  The  King's  frightened 
courtiers  tried  to  stop  this  outburst, showing  him 
the  French  Ambassador  at  his  elbow.  With  a 
superhuman  effort  Victor  Emmanuel  controlled 
himself,  and  turning  to  the  Ambassador,  said: 

"I  fear  my  tongue  ran  away  with  me!"  With 
a  smile  and  a  bow  the  great  French  diplomatist 
remarked: 

"Sire,  I  am  so  deaf  I  have  not  heard  a  word 
your  Majesty  has  been  saying!" 

The  fashion  of  coming  to  the  Riviera  for 
health  or  for  amusement,  dates  from  the  sixties, 
when  the  Empress  of  Russia  passed  a  winter  at 
Nice,  as  a  last  attempt  to  prolong  the  existence 
of  the  dying  Tsarewitsch,  her  son.  There  also  the 
next  season  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh  wooed  and 
won  her  daughter  (then  the  greatest  heiress  in 
Europe)  for  his  bride.  The  world  moves  fast 
and  a  journey  it  required  a  matter  of  life  and 
death  to  decide  on,  then,  is  gayly  undertaken 
now,  that  a  prince  may  race  a  yacht,  or  a  prin 
cess  try  her  luck  at  the  gambling  tables.  When 
one  reflects  that  the  "royal  caste,"  in  Europe 

[  "4] 


ROT^LTT 


alone,  numbers  some  eight  hundred  people,  and 
that  the  East  is  beginning  to  send  out  its  more 
enterprising  crowned  heads  to  get  a  taste  of  the 
fun,  that  beyond  drawing  their  salaries,  these 
good  people  have  absolutely  nothing  to  do,  ex 
cept  to  amuse  themselves,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
this  happy  land  is  crowded  with  royal  pleasure- 
seekers. 

After  a  try  at  Florence  and  Aix,  "the  Queen" 
has  been  faithful  to  Cimiez,  a  charming  site  back 
of  Nice.  That  gay  city  is  always  en  fete  the  day 
she  arrives,  as  her  carriages  pass  surrounded  by 
French  cavalry,  one  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  her 
aged  kindly  face  and  bowed  figure,  which  never 
theless  she  can  make  so  dignified  when  occasion 
requires.  The  stay  here  is,  indeed,  a  holiday  for 
this  record-breaking  sovereign,  who  potters  about 
her  private  grounds  of  a  morning  in  a  donkey- 
chair,  sunning  herself  and  watching  her  Batten- 
berg  grandchildren  at  play.  In  the  afternoon, 
she  drives  a  couple  of  hours — in  an  open  car 
riage — one  outrider  in  black  livery  alone  dis 
tinguishing  her  turnout  from  the  others. 

The  Prince  of  Wales  makes  his  headquarters 
at  Cannes,  where  he  has  only  medium  luck  in 
sailing,  for  which  he  consoles  himself  with  jolly 
dinners  at  Monte  Carlo.  You  can  see  him  al 
most  any  evening  in  the  Restaurant  de  Paris, 
surrounded  by  his  own  particular  set, — the 
Duchess  of  Devonshire  (who  started  a  penniless 
German  officer's  daughter,  and  became  twice  a 

[  "5] 


duchess);  Lady  de  Grey  and  Lady  Wolverton, 
both  showing  near  six  feet  of  slender  English 
beauty;  at  their  side,  and  lovelier  than  either, 
the  Countess  of  Essex.  The  husbands  of  these 
"Merry  Wives"  are  absent,  but  do  not  seem  to 
be  missed,  as  the  ladies  sit  smoking  and  laughing 
over  their  coffee,  the  party  only  breaking  up 
towards  eleven  o'clock  to  try  its  luck  at  trente 
et  quarantey  until  a  "special"  takes  them  back 
to  Cannes. 

So  wonderfully  does  England's  Heir-apparent 
hold  his  own  in  the  long  and  difficult  battle  with 
Father  Time  that  it  is  hard  to  realize,  while  watch 
ing  his  alert  manner  and  youthful  expression,  that 
the  genial,  smiling  gentleman  is  no  longer  young. 
The  likeness  to  his  imperial  and  royal  mother 
becomes  each  year  more  marked.  Whenever  I  see 
one  of  the  Queen's  children  I  am  struck  with  the 
way  her  strong  personality  is  stamped  on  her  de 
scendants.  The  Prince's  voice,  too,  is  oddly  like 
the  Queen's,  deep  and  peculiarly  sweet  in  tone. 
He  has  a  pleasant  twinkle  in  his  small  eyes,  and 
an  entire  absence  of  pose,  that  accounts  largely  for 
his  immense  and  enduring  popularity. 

But  the  Hotel  Cap  Martin  shelters  quieter 
crowned  heads.  The  Emperor  and  Empress  of 
Austria,  who  tramp  about  the  hilly  roads,  the 
King  and  Queen  of  Saxony  and  the  fat  Arch 
duchess  Stephanie.  Austria's  Empress  looks  sadly 
changed  and  ill,  as  does  another  lady  of  whom  one 
can  occasionally  catch  a  glimpse,  walking  pain- 

[  "6] 


LTT 


fully  with  a  crutch-stick  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  near  her  villa.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  this 
white-haired,  bent  old  woman  was  once  the  im 
perial  beauty  who  from  the  salons  of  the  Tuileries 
dictated  the  fashions  of  the  world  !  Few  have  paid 
so  dearly  for  their  brief  hour  of  splendor! 

Cannes  with  its  excellent  harbor  is  the  centre 
of  interest  during  the  racing  season  when  the 
Tsarewitsch  comes  on  his  yacht  Czaritza.  At 
the  Battle  of  Flowers,  one  is  pretty  sure  to  see 
the  Duke  of  Cambridge,  his  Imperial  Highness, 
the  Grand  Duke  Michael,  Prince  Christian  of 
Denmark,  H.  R.  H.  the  Duke  of  Nassau,  H. 
I.  H.  the  Archduke  Ferdinand  d'Este,  their 
Serene  Highnesses  of  Mecklenburg-Schwerin 
and  the  Saxe-Coburg-Gothas,  also  H.  I.  H. 
Marie  Valerie  and  the  Schleswig-Holsteins,  pelt 
ing  each  other  and  the  public  with  confetti  and 
flowers.  Indeed,  half  the  Almanack  de  Gotha,  that 
continental  "society  list,"  seems  to  be  sunning 
itself  here  and  forgetting  its  cares,  on  bicycles  or 
on  board  yachts.  It  is  said  that  the  Crown  Prin 
cess  of  Honolulu  (whoever  she  may  be)  honors 
Mentone  with  her  presence,  and  the  newly  de 
posed  Queen  "Ranavalo"  of  Madagascar  is  en 
route  to  join  in  the  fun. 

This  crowd  of  royalty  reminds  me  of  a  story 
the  old  sea-dogs  who  gather  about  the  "Ad 
mirals'  corner"  of  the  Metropolitan  Club  in 
Washington,  love  to  tell  you.  An  American 
cockswain,  dazzled  by  a  doubly  royal  visit,  with 

[  "7] 


WO<P^L<DLY 


attendingsuites,  on  board  the  old  "  Constitution," 
came  up  to  his  commanding  officer  and  touching 
his  cap,  said  : 

"Beg  pardon,  Admiral,  but  one  of  them 
kings  has  tumbled  down  the  gangway  and  broke 
his  leg." 

It  has  become  a  much  more  amusing  thing 
to  wear  a  crown  than  it  was.  Times  have  changed 
indeed  since  Marie  Laczinska  lived  the  fifty 
lonely  years  of  her  wedded  life  and  bore  her 
many  children,  in  one  bed-room  at  Versailles  — 
a  monotony  only  broken  by  visits  to  Fontaine- 
bleau  or  Marly.  Shakespeare's  line  no  longer  fits 
the  case. 

Beyond  securing  rich  matches  for  their  chil 
dren,  and  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  that  the  Rad 
icals  at  home  do  not  unduly  cut  down  their  civil 
lists,  these  great  ones  have  little  but  their  amuse 
ments  to  occupy  them.  Do  they  ever  reflect,  as 
they  rush  about  visiting  each  other  and  squabbling 
over  precedence  when  they  meet,  that  some  fine 
morning  the  tax-payers  may  wake  up,  and  ask 
each  other  why  they  are  being  crushed  under 
such  heavy  loads,  that  eight  hundred  or  more 
quite  useless  people  may  pass  their  lives  in  for 
eign  watering-places,  away  from  their  homes  and 
their  duties?  It  will  be  a  bad  day  for  them  when 
the  long-suffering  subjects  say  to  them,  "Since 
we  get  on  so  exceedingly  well  during  your  many 
visits  abroad,  we  think  we  will  try  how  it  will 
work  without  you  at  all!" 


ROT^LTT 


The  Prince  of  little  Monaco  seems  to  be  about 
the  only  one  up  to  the  situation,  for  he  at  least 
stays  at  home,  and  in  connection  with  two  other 
gentlemen  runs  an  exceedingly  good  hotel  and 
several  restaurants  on  his  estates,  doing  all  he 
can  to  attract  money  into  the  place,  while  mak 
ing  the  strictest  laws  to  prevent  his  subjects  gam 
bling  at  the  famous  tables.  Now  if  other  royalties 
instead  of  amusing  themselves  all  the  year  round 
would  go  in  for  something  practical  like  this, 
they  might  become  useful  members  of  the  com 
munity.  This  idea  of  Monaco's  Prince  strikes 
one  as  most  timely,  and  as  opening  a  career  for 
other  indigent  crowned  heads.  Hotels  are  get 
ting  so  good  and  so  numerous,  that  without 
some  especial  "attraction"  a  new  one  can  hardly 
succeed;  but  a  "Hohenzollern  House"  well  sit 
uated  in  Berlin,  with  William  II.  to  receive  the 
tourists  at  the  door,  and  his  fat  wife  at  the  desk, 
would  be  sure  to  prosper.  It  certainly  would  be 
pleasanter  for  him  to  spend  money  so  honestly 
earned  than  the  millions  wrested  from  half-starv 
ing  peasants  which  form  his  present  income.  Be 
sides  there  is  almost  as  much  gold  lace  on  a  hotel 
employee's  livery  as  on  a  court  costume! 

The  numerous  crowned  heads  one  meets 
wandering  about,  can  hardly  lull  themselves  over 
their  "games"  with  the  flattering  unction  that 
they  are  of  use,  for,  have  they  not  France  before 
them  (which  they  find  so  much  to  their  taste) 
stronger,  richer,  more  respected  than  ever  since 

[  "9] 


she  shook  herself  free  of  such  incumbrances? 
Not  to  mention  our  own  democratic  country, 
which  has  managed  to  hold  its  own,  in  spite  of 
their  many  gleeful  predictions  to  the  contrary. 


N°-  18 

A  Rock  Ahead 


HAVING  had  occasion  several  times  dur 
ing  this  past  season,  to  pass  by  the  larger 
stores  in  the  vicinity  of  Twenty-third 
Street,  I  have  been  struck  more  than  ever,  by 
the  endless  flow  of  womankind  that  beats  against 
the  doors  of  those  establishments.  If  they  were 
temples  where  a  beneficent  deity  was  distribut 
ing  health,  learning,  and  all  the  good  things  of 
existence,  the  rush  could  hardly  have  been 
greater.  It  saddened  me  to  realize  that  each  of 
the  eager  women  I  saw  was,  on  the  contrary,  dis 
pensing  something  of  her  strength  and  brain,  as 
well  as  the  wearily  earned  stipend  of  the  men  of 
her  family  (if  not  her  own),  for  what  could  be 
of  little  profit  to  her. 

It  occurred  to  me  that,  if  the  people  who  are 
so  quick  to  talk  about  the  elevating  and  refining 
influences  of  women,  could  take  an  hour  or  two 
and  inspect  the  centres  in  question,  they  might 
not  be  so  firm  in  their  beliefs.  For,  reluctant  as 
I  am  to  acknowledge  it,  the  one  great  misfor 
tune  in  this  country,  is  the  unnatural  position 
which  has  been  (from  some  mistaken  idea  of 
chivalry)  accorded  to  women  here.  The  result  of 
placing  them  on  this  pedestal,  and  treating  them 
as  things  apart,  has  been  to  make  women  in 
America  poorer  helpmeets  to  their  husbands 


than  in  any  other  country  on  the  face  of  the 
globe,  civilized  or  uncivilized. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  this  is  not  confined 
to  the  rich,  but  permeates  all  classes,  becoming 
more  harmful  in  descending  the  social  scale,  and 
it  will  bring  about  a  disintegration  of  our  so 
ciety,  sooner  than  could  be  believed.  The  saying 
on  which  we  have  all  been  brought  up,  viz.,  that 
you  can  gauge  the  point  of  civilization  attained 
in  a  nation  by  the  position  it  accords  to  woman, 
was  quite  true  as  long  as  woman  was  considered 
man's  inferior.  To  make  her  his  equal  was  per- 
fedlly  just;  all  the  trouble  begins  when  you  at 
tempt  to  make  her  man's  superior,  a  something 
apart  from  his  working  life,  and  not  the  com 
panion  of  his  troubles  and  cares,  as  she  was  in 
tended  to  be. 

When  a  small  shopkeeper  in  Europe  marries, 
the  next  day  you  will  see  his  young  wife  taking 
her  place  at  the  desk  in  his  shop.  While  he  serves 
his  customers,  his  smiling  spouse  keeps  the  books, 
makes  change,  and  has  an  eye  on  the  employees. 
At  noon  they  dine  together;  in  the  evening,  after 
the  shop  is  closed,  are  pleased  or  saddened  to 
gether  over  the  results  of  the  day.  The  wife's  dot 
almost  always  goes  into  the  business,  so  that 
there  is  a  community  of  interest  to  unite  them, 
and  their  lives  are  passed  together.  In  this  coun 
try,  what  happens?  The  husband  places  his  new 
wife  in  a  small  house,  or  in  two  or  three  fur 
nished  rooms,  generally  so  far  away  that  all  idea 


of  dining  with  her  is  impossible.  In  consequence, 
he  has  a  "quick  lunch"  down  town,  and  does 
not  see  his  wife  between  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  and  seven  in  the  evening.  His  business 
is  a  closed  book  to  her,  in  which  she  can  have 
no  interest,  for  her  weary  husband  naturally 
revolts  from  talking  "shop,"  even  if  she  is  in  a 
position  to  understand  him. 

His  false  sense  of  shielding  her  from  the  rude 
world  makes  him  keep  his  troubles  to  himself, 
so  she  rarely  knows  his  financial  position  and 
sulks  over  his  "meanness  "  to  her,  in  regard  to 
pin-money;  and  being  a  perfectly  idle  person, 
her  days  are  apt  to  be  passed  in  a  way  especially 
devised  by  Satan  for  unoccupied  hands.  She  has 
learned  no  cooking  from  her  mother;  "going  to 
market"  has  become  a  thing  of  the  past.  So  she 
falls  a  victim  to  the  allurements  of  the  bargain- 
counter;  returning  home  after  hours  of  aimless 
wandering,  irritable  and  aggrieved  because  she 
cannot  own  the  beautiful  things  she  has  seen. 
She  passes  the  evening  in  trying  to  win  her  hus 
band's  consent  to  some  purchase  he  knows  he 
cannot  afford,  while  it  breaks  his  heart  to  refuse 
her — some  object,  which,  were  she  really  his 
companion,  she  would  not  have  had  the  time  to 
see  or  the  folly  to  ask  for. 

The  janitor  in  our  building  is  truly  a  toiler. 
He  rarely  leaves  his  dismal  quarters  under  the 
sidewalk,  but  "Madam"  walks  the  streets  clad 
in  sealskin  and  silk,  a" Gainsborough"  crowning 


W<AYS    fef 


her  false  "bang.  "I  always  think  of  MaxO'Rell's 
clever  saying,  when  I  see  her:  "The  sweat  of  the 
American  husband  crystallizes  into  diamond 
ear-rings  for  the  American  woman."  My  jani- 
tress  sports  a  diminutive  pair  of  those  jewels, 
and  has  hopes  of  larger  ones!  Instead  of  "do 
ing"  the  bachelor's  rooms  in  the  building  as 
her  husband's  helpmeet,  she  "does"  her  spouse, 
and  a  char-woman  works  for  her.  She  is  one  of  the 
drops  in  the  tide  that  ebbs  and  flows  on  Twenty- 
third  Street  —  a  discontented  woman  placed  in  a 
false  position  by  our  absurd  customs. 

Go  a  little  further  up  in  the  social  scale  and 
you  will  find  the  same  "detached"  feeling.  In  a 
household  I  know  of  only  one  horse  and  a  coupe 
can  be  afforded.  Do  you  suppose  it  is  for  the 
use  of  the  weary  breadwinner?  Not  at  all.  He 
walks  from  his  home  to  the  "elevated."  The 
carriage  is  to  take  his  wife  to  teas  or  the  park. 
In  a  year  or  two  she  will  go  abroad,  leaving  him 
alone  to  turn  the  crank  that  produces  the  in 
come.  As  it  is,  she  always  leaves  him  for  six 
months  each  year  in  a  half-closed  house,  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  a  caretaker.  Two  additional 
words  could  be  advantageously  added  to  the 
wedding  service.  After  "for  richer  for  poorer," 
I  should  like  to  hear  a  bride  promise  to  cling  to 
her  husband  "  for  winter  for  summer!" 

Make  another  step  up  and  stand  in  the  en 
trance  of  a  house  at  two  A.  M.,just  as  the  cotil 
lion  is  commencing,  and  watch  the  couples  leav- 

[  "4] 


/T          T)     /~\    /~*    T7"  jT     TT    J?        /f   <~J~\ 

t/1       -t\.  \J  O  j\         t/jL  Jii    fy   e/Of    U 

ing.  The  husband,  who  has  been  in  Wall  Street  all 
day,  knows  that  he  must  be  there  again  at  nine 
next  morning.  He  is  furious  at  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  and  dropping  with  fatigue.  His  wife, 
who  has  done  nothing  to  weary  her,  is  equally 
enraged  to  be  taken  away  just  as  the  ball  was 
becoming  amusing.  What  a  happy,  united  pair 
they  are  as  the  footman  closes  the  door  and  the 
carriage  rolls  off  home!  Who  is  to  blame?  The 
husband  is  vainly  trying  to  lead  the  most  exacting 
of  double  lives,  that  of  a  business  man  all  day 
and  a  society  man  all  night.  You  can  pick  him 
out  at  a  glance  in  a  ballroom.  His  eye  shows  you 
that  there  is  no  rest  for  him,  for  he  has  placed 
his  wife  at  the  head  of  an  establishment  whose 
working  crushes  him  into  the  mud  of  care  and 
anxiety.  Has  he  any  one  to  blame  but  himself? 

In  England,  I  am  told,  the  man  of  a  family 
goes  up  to  London  in  the  spring  and  gets  his 
complete  outfit,  down  to  the  smallest  details  of 
hat-box  and  umbrella.  If  there  happens  to  be 
money  left,  the  wife  gets  a  new  gown  or  two.  If 
not,  she  "turns"  the  old  ones  and  rejoices  vica 
riously  in  the  splendor  of  her  "lord."  I  know 
one  charming  little  home  over  there,  where  the 
ladies  cannot  afford  a  pony-carriage,  because  the 
three  indispensable  hunters  eat  up  the  where 
withal. 

Thackeray  was  delighted  to  find  one  house 
hold  (Major  Ponto's)  where  the  governess  ruled 
supreme,  and  I  feel  a  fiendish  pleasure  in  these 

[ 


WdTS 


accounts  of  a  country  where  men  have  been  able 
to  maintain  some  rights,  and  am  moved  to  preach 
a  crusade  for  the  liberation  of  the  American  hus 
band,  that  the  poor,  down-trodden  creature  may 
revolt  from  the  slavery  where  he  is  held  and  once 
more  claim  his  birthright.  If  he  be  prompt  to  act 
(and  is  successful)  he  may  work  such  a  reform 
that  our  girls,  on  marrying,  may  feel  that  some 
duties  and  responsibilities  go  with  their  new 
positions;  and  a  state  of  things  be  changed,  where 
it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  be  pitied  byherfriends 
as  a  model  of  abnegation,  because  she  has  decided 
to  remain  in  town  during  the  summer  to  keep 
her  husband  company  and  make  his  weary  home 
coming  brighter.  Or  where  (as  in  a  story  recently 
heard)  a  foreigner  on  being  presented  to  an 
American  bride  abroad  and  asking  for  her  hus 
band,  could  hear  in  answer:  "Oh,  he  could  not 
come;  he  was  too  busy.  I  am  making  my  wed 
ding-trip  without  him." 


N°-  19 

The  Grand  'Prix 


IN  most  cities,  it  is  impossible  to  say  when 
the  "season"  ends.  In  London  and  with 
us  in  New  York  it  dwindles  off  without 
any  special  finish,  but  in  Paris  it  closes  like  a 
trap-door,  or  the  curtain  on  the  last  scene  of  a 
pantomime,  while  the  lights  are  blazing  and  the 
orchestra  is  banging  its  loudest.  The  Grand  Prix, 
which  takes  place  on  the  second  Sunday  in  June, 
is  the  climax  of  the  spring  gayeties.  Up  to  that 
date,  the  social  pace  has  been  getting  faster  and 
faster,  like  the  finish  of  the  big  race  itself,  and 
fortunately  for  the  lives  of  the  women  as  well  as 
the  horses,  ends  as  suddenly. 

In  1897,  the  last  steeple  chase  at  Auteuil, 
which  precedes  the  Grand  Prix  by  one  week,  was 
won  by  a  horse  belonging  to  an  actress  of  the  'Thea 
tre  Francis,  a  lady  who  has  been  a  great  deal 
before  the  public  already  in  connection  with  the 
life  and  death  of  young  Lebaudy.  This  youth 
having  had  the  misfortune  to  inherit  an  enor 
mous  fortune,  while  still  a  mere  boy,  plunged 
into  the  wildest  dissipation,  and  became  the  prey 
of  a  band  of  sharpers  and  blacklegs.  Mile.  Marie 
Louise  Marsy  appears  to  have  been  the  one  per 
son  who  had  a  sincere  affection  for  the  unfor 
tunate  youth.  When  his  health  gave  way  during 
his  military  service,  she  threw  over  her  engage- 

[  I27  ] 


ment  with  the  Franfais,  and  nursed  her  lover 
until  his  death — a  devotion  rewarded  by  the  gift 
of  a  million. 

At  the  present  moment,  four  or  five  of  the 
band  of  self-styled  noblemen  who  traded  on  the 
boy's  inexperience  and  generosity,  are  serving 
out  terms  in  the  state  prisons  for  blackmailing, 
and  the  Theatre  Franfais  possesses  the  anomaly 
of  a  young  and  beautiful  actress,  who  runs  a 
racing  stable  in  her  own  name. 

The  Grand  Prix  dates  from  the  reign  of  Na 
poleon  III.,  who,  at  the  suggestion  of  the  great 
railway  companies,  inaugurated  this  race  in  1862, 
in  imitation  of  the  English  Derby,  as  a  means 
of  attracting  people  to  Paris.  The  city  and  the 
railways  each  give  half  of  the  forty-thousand- 
dollar  prize.  It  is  the  great  official  race  of  the 
year.  The  President  occupies  the  central  pavil 
ion,  surrounded  by  the  members  of  the  cabinet 
and  the  diplomatic  corps.  On  the  tribunes  and 
lawn  can  be  seen  the  Tout  Paris — all  the  celebri 
ties  of  the  great  and  half-world  who  play  such 
an  important  part  in  the  life  of  France's  capital. 
The  whole  colony  of  the  Rastaquoueres,  is  sure  to 
be  there,  "Rastas,"  as  they  are  familiarly  called 
by  the  Parisians,  who  make  little  if  any  distinc 
tion  in  their  minds  between  a  South  American 
(blazing  in  diamonds  and  vulgar  clothes)  and 
our  own  select  (?)  colony.  Apropos  of  this  ina 
bility  of  the  Europeans  to  appreciate  our  fine 
social  distinctions,  I  have  been  told  of  a  well-born 

[  "8  ] 


THE   GR^NT)   PRIX 


New  Yorker  who  took  a  French  noblewoman 
rather  to  task  for  receiving  an  American  she 
thought  unworthy  of  notice,  and  said: 

"How  can  you  receive  her?  Her  husband 
keeps  a  hotel!" 

"Is  that  any  reason?"  asked  the  French 
woman;  "I  thought  all  Americans  kept  hotels." 

For  the  Grand  Prix,  every  woman  not  abso 
lutely  bankrupt  has  a  new  costume,  her  one  idea 
being  a  creation  that  will  attract  attention  and 
eclipse  her  rivals.  The  dressmakers  have  had  a 
busy  time  of  it  for  weeks  before. 

Every  horse  that  can  stand  up  is  pressed  into 
service  for  the  day.  For  twenty-four  hours  be 
fore,  the  whole  city  is  en  fete,  and  Paris  en  fete  is 
always  a  sight  worth  seeing.  The  natural  gayety 
of  the  Parisians,  a  characteristic  noticed  (if  we 
are  to  believe  the  historians)  as  far  back  as  the 
conquest  of  Gaul  by  Julius  Caesar,  breaks  out 
in  all  its  amusing  spontaneity.  If  the  day  is  fine, 
the  entire  population  gives  itself  up  to  amuse 
ment.  From  early  morning  the  current  sets  to 
wards  the  charming  corner  of  the  Bois  where 
the  Longchamps  race-course  lies,  picturesquely 
encircled  by  the  Seine  (alive  with  a  thousand 
boats),  and  backed  by  the  woody  slopes  of 
Suresnes  and  St.  Cloud.  By  noon  every  corner 
and  vantage  point  of  the  landscape  is  seized 
upon,  when,  with  a  blare  of  trumpets  and  the 
rattle  of  cavalry,  the  President  arrives  in  his 
turnout  a  la  Daumont,  two  postilions  in  blue 


& 


and  gold,  and  a  piqueur,  preceded  by  a  detach 
ment  of  the  showy  Gardes  Republicans  on  horse 
back,  and  takes  his  place  in  the  little  pavilion 
where  for  so  many  years  Eugenie  used  to  sit  in 
state,  and  which  has  sheltered  so  many  crowned 
heads  under  its  simple  roof.  Faure's  arrival  is 
the  signal  for  the  racing  to  begin,  from  that 
moment  the  interest  goes  on  increasing  until 
the  great  "event."  Then  in  an  instant  the  vast 
throng  of  human  beings  breaks  up  and  flows 
homeward  across  the  Bois,  filling  the  big  Place 
around  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  rolling  down  the 
Champs  Elysees,  in  twenty  parallel  lines  of  car 
riages.  The  sidewalks  are  filled  with  a  laughing, 
singing,  uproarious  crowd  that  quickly  invades 
every  restaurant,  cafe,  or  chop-house  until  their 
little  tables  overflow  on  to  the  grass  and  side 
walks,  and  even  into  the  middle  of  the  streets. 
Later  in  the  evening  the  open-air  concerts  and 
theatres  are  packed,  and  every  little  square 
organizes  its  impromptu  ball,  the  musicians 
mounted  on  tables,  and  the  crowd  dancing  gayly 
on  the  wooden  pavement  until  daybreak. 

The  next  day,  Paris  becomes  from  a  fashion 
able  point  of  view,  "impossible."  If  you  walk 
through  the  richer  quarters,  you  will  see  only 
long  lines  of  closed  windows.  The  approaches 
to  the  railway  stations  are  blocked  with  cabs 
piled  with  trunks  and  bicycles.  The  "great  world" 
is  fleeing  to  the  seashore  or  its  chateaux,  and 
Paris  will  know  it  no  more  until  January,  for 

[   130  ] 


THE   GRtANT)   PRIX 


the  French  are  a  country-loving  race,  and  since 
there  has  been  no  court,  the  aristocracy  pass 
longer  and  longer  periods  on  their  own  estates 
each  year,  partly  from  choice  and  largely  to  show 
their  disdain  for  the  republic  and  its  entertain 
ments. 

The  shady  drives  in  the  park,  which  only  a  day 
or  two  ago  were  so  brilliant  with  smart  traps  and 
spring  toilets,are  becomeacool  wilderness, where 
you  will  meet,  perhaps,  a  few  maiden  ladies  ex 
ercising  fat  dogs,  uninterrupted  except  by  the 
watering-cart  or  by  a  few  stray  tourists  in  cabs. 
Now  comes  a  delightful  time  for  the  real  ama 
teur  of  Paris  and  the  country  around,  which  is 
full  of  charming  corners  where  one  can  dine  at 
quiet  little  restaurants,  overhanging  the  water  or 
buried  among  trees.  You  are  sure  of  getting  the 
best  of  attention  from  the  waiters,  and  the  dishes 
you  order  receive  all  the  cook's  attention.  Of 
an  evening  the  Bois  is  alive  with  a  myriad  of 
bicycles,  their  lights  twinkling  among  the  trees 
like  many-colored  fire-flies.  To  any  one  who 
knows  how  to  live  there,  Paris  is  at  its  best  in 
the  last  half  of  June  and  July.  Nevertheless,  in 
a  couple  of  days  there  will  not  be  an  American 
in  Paris,  London  being  the  objective  point;  for 
we  love  to  be  "in  at  the  death,"  and  a  corona 
tion,  a  musical  festival,  or  a  big  race  is  sure  to 
attract  all  our  floating  population. 

The  Americans  who  have  the  hardest  time 
in  Paris  are  those  who  try  to  "run  with  the  deer 


and  hunt  with  the  hounds,"  as  the  French  prov 
erb  has  it,  who  would  fain  serve  God  and  Mam 
mon.  As  anything  especially  amusing  is  sure  to 
take  place  on  Sunday  in  this  wicked  capital,  our 
friends  go  through  agonies  of  indecision,  their 
consciences  pulling  oneway, theirdesire  to  amuse 
themselves  the  other.  Some  find  a  middle  course, 
it  seems,  for  yesterday  this  conversation  was  over 
heard  on  the  steps  of  the  American  Church : 

First  American  Lady:  "Are  you  going  to  stop 
for  the  sermon?" 

Second  American  Lady:  "I  am  so  sorry  I 
can't,  but  the  races  begin  at  one!" 


[  13*  ] 


N°-  20 

"The  Treadmill." 


A  HALF-HUMOROUS,  half-pathetic 
epistle  has  been  sent  to  me  by  a  woman, 
who  explains  in  it  her  particular  per 
plexity.  Such  letters  are  the  windfalls  of  our  pro 
fession  !  For  what  is  more  attractive  than  to  have 
a  woman  take  you  for  her  lay  confessor,  to  whom 
she  comes  for  advice  in  trouble?  opening  her  in 
nocent  heart  for  your  inspection! 

My  correspondent  complains  that  her  days 
are  not  sufficiently  long,  nor  is  her  strength 
great  enough,  for  the  thousand  and  one  duties 
and  obligations  imposed  upon  her.  "If,"  she 
says,  "a  woman  has  friends  and  a  small  place  in 
the  world — and  who  has  not  in  these  days? — 
she  must  golf  or  'bike'  or  skate  a  bit,  of  a 
morning;  then  she  is  apt  to  lunch  out,  or  have 
a  friend  or  two  in,  to  that  meal.  After  luncheon 
there  is  sure  to  be  a  c class'  of  some  kind  that 
she  has  foolishly  joined,  or  a  charity  meeting, 
matinee,  or  reception;  but  above  all,  there  are 
her  'duty'  calls.  She  must  be  home  at  five  to 
make  tea,  that  she  has  promised  her  men  friends, 
and  they  will  not  leave  until  it  is  time  for  her 
to  dress  for  dinner,  'out'  or  at  home,  with  often 
the  opera,  a  supper,  or  a  ball  to  follow.  It  is 
quite  impossible,"  she  adds,  "under  these  cir 
cumstances  to  apply  one's  self  to  anything  seri- 

[  133  ] 


ous,  to  read  a  book  or  even  open  a  periodical. 
The  most  one  can  accomplish  is  a  glance  at  a 
paper." 

Indeed,  it  would  require  an  exceptional  con 
stitution  to  carry  out  the  above  programme,  not 
to  mention  the  attention  that  a  woman  must 
(however  reluctantly)  give  to  her  house  and  her 
family.  Where  are  the  quiet  hours  to  be  found 
for  self-culture,  the  perusal  of  a  favorite  author, 
or,  perhaps,  a  little  timid  "writing"  on  her  own 
account?  Nor  does  this  treadmill  round  fill  a  few 
months  only  of  her  life.  With  slight  variations 
of  scene  and  costume,  it  continues  through  the 
year. 

A  painter,  I  know,  was  fortunate  enough  to 
receive,  a  year  or  two  ago,  the  commission  to 
paint  a  well-known  beauty.  He  was  delighted 
with  the  idea  and  convinced  that  he  could  make 
her  portrait  the  best  work  of  his  life,  one  that 
would  be  the  stepping-stone  to  fame  and  for 
tune.  This  was  in  the  spring.  He  was  naturally 
burning  to  begin  at  once,  but  found  to  his  dis 
may  that  the  lady  was  just  about  starting  for 
Europe.  So  he  waited,  and  at  her  suggestion  in 
stalled  himself  a  couple  of  months  later  at  the 
seaside  city  where  she  had  a  cottage.  No  one 
could  be  more  charming  than  she  was,  invit 
ing  him  to  dine  and  drive  daily,  but  when  he 
broached  the  subject  of  "sitting,"  was  "too  busy 
just  that  day."  Later  in  the  autumn  she  would 
be  quite  at  his  disposal.  In  the  autumn,  however, 

[  -34] 


"THE    TREADMILL" 

she  was  visiting,  never  ten  days  in  the  same 
place.  Early  winter  found  her  "getting  her  house 
in  order,"  a  mysterious  rite  apparently  attended 
with  vast  worry  and  fatigue.  With  cooling  en 
thusiasm,  the  painter  called  and  coaxed  and 
waited.  November  brought  the  opera  and  the 
full  swing  of  a  New  York  season.  So  far  she  has 
given  him  half  a  dozen  sittings,  squeezed  in  be 
tween  a  luncheon,  which  made  her  "unavoidably 
late,"  for  which  she  is  charmingly  "sorry,"  and 
a  reception  that  she  was  forced  to  attend,  al 
though  "it  breaks  my  heart  to  leave  just  as  you 
are  beginning  to  work  so  well,  but  I  really  must, 
or  the  tiresome  old  cat  who  is  giving  the  tea  will 
be  saying  all  sorts  of  unpleasant  things  about 
me."  So  she  flits  off,  leaving  the  poor,  disillu 
sioned  painter  before  his  canvas,  knowing  now 
that  his  dream  is  over,  that  in  a  month  or  two 
his  pretty  sitter  will  be  off  again  to  New  Or 
leans  for  the  carnival,  or  abroad,  and  that  his 
weary  round  of  waiting  will  recommence.  He 
will  be  fortunate  if  some  day  it  does  not  float 
back  to  him,  in  the  mysterious  way  disagreeable 
things  do  come  to  one,  that  she  has  been  heard 
to  say,  "I  fear  dear  Mr.  Palette  is  not  very 
clever,  for  I  have  been  sitting  to  him  for  over 
a  year,  and  he  has  really  done  nothing  yet." 

He  has  been  simply  the  victim  of  a  state  of 
affairs  that  neither  of  them  were  strong  enough 
to  break  through.  It  never  entered  into  Beauty's 
head  that  she  could  lead  a  life  different  from  her 

[  135] 


friends.  She  was  honestly  anxious  to  have  a  suc 
cessful  portrait  of  herself,  but  the  sacrifice  of 
any  of  her  habits  was  more  than  she  could  make. 

Who  among  my  readers  (and  I  am  tempted 
to  believe  they  are  all  more  sensible  than  the 
above  young  woman)  has  not,  during  a  summer 
passed  with  agreeable  friends,  made  a  thousand 
pleasant  little  plans  with  them  for  the  ensuing 
winter, — the  books  they  were  to  read  at  the  same 
time,  the  "exhibitions"  they  were  to  see,  the 
visits  to  our  wonderful  collections  in  the  Met 
ropolitan  Museum  or  private  galleries,  cosy  little 
dinners,  etc.?  And  who  has  not  found,  as  the 
winter  slips  away,  that  few  of  these  charming 
plans  have  been  carried  out?  He  and  his  friends 
have  unconsciously  fallen  back  into  their  ruts 
of  former  years,  and  the  pleasant  things  pro 
jected  have  been  brushed  aside  by  that  strong 
est  of  tyrants,  habit. 

I  once  asked  a  very  great  lady,  whose  gracious 
mannerwas  neverdisturbed,who  floated  through 
the  endless  complications  of  her  life  with  smiling 
serenity,  how  she  achieved  this  Olympian  calm. 
She  was  good  enough  to  explain.  "  I  make  a  list 
of  what  I  want  to  do  each  day.  Then,  as  I  find 
my  day  passing,  or  I  get  behind,  or  tired,  I  throw 
over  every  other  engagement.  I  could  have  done 
them  all  with  hurry  and  fatigue.  I  prefer  to  do 
one-half  and  enjoy  what  I  do.  If  I  go  to  a  house, 
it  is  to  remain  and  appreciate  whatever  enter 
tainment  has  been  prepared  for  me.  I  never  offer 

[  136] 


"THE    TREADMILL" 

to  any  hostess  the  slight  of  a  hurried,  distrait 
'call,'  with  glances  at  my  watch,  and  an  'on-the- 
wing'  manner.  It  is  much  easier  not  to  go,  or 
to  send  a  card." 

This  brings  me  around  to  a  subject  which  I 
believe  is  one  of  the  causes  of  my  correspon 
dent's  dilemma.  I  fear  that  she  never  can  refuse 
anything.  It  is  a  peculiar  trait  of  people  who  go 
about  to  amuse  themselves,  that  they  are  always 
sure  the  particular  entertainment  they  have  been 
asked  to  last  is  going  to  "be  amusing."  It  rarely 
is  different  from  the  others,  but  these  people  are 
convinced,  that  to  stay  away  would  be  to  miss 
something.  A  weary-looking  girl  about  I  A.  M. 
(at  a  house-party)  when  asked  why  she  did  not 
go  to  bed  if  she  was  so  tired,  answered,  "the 
nights  I  go  to  bed  early,  they  always  seem  to 
do  something  jolly,  and  then  I  miss  it." 

There  is  no  greater  proof  of  how  much  this 
weary  round  wears  on  women  than  the  acts  of 
the  few  who  feel  themselves  strong  enough  in 
their  position  to  defy  custom.  They  have  thrown 
off  the  yoke  (at  least  the  younger  ones  have) 
doubtless  backed  up  by  their  husbands,  for  men 
are  much  quicker  to  see  the  aimlessness  of  this 
stupid  social  routine.  First  they  broke  down  the 
great  New-Year-call  "grind."  Men  over  forty 
doubtless  recall  with  a  shudder,  that  awful  cus 
tom  which  compelled  a  man  to  get  into  his  dress 
clothes  at  ten  A.  M.,  and  pass  his  day  rushing 
about  from  house  to  house  like  a  postman.  Out- 

[  137  ] 


WdYS 


of-town  clubs  and  sport  helped  to  do  away  with 
that  remnant  of  New  Amsterdam.  Next  came 
the  male  revolt  from  the  afternoon  "tea"  or 
"musical."  A  black  coat  is  rare  now  at  either 
of  these  functions,  or  if  seen  is  pretty  sure  to  be 
on  a  back  over  fifty.  Next,  we  lords  of  crea 
tion  refused  to  call  at  all,  or  leave  our  cards.  A 
married  woman  now  leaves  her  husband's  card 
with  her  own,  and  sisters  leave  the  "pasteboard" 
of  their  brothers  and  often  those  of  their  bro 
thers'  friends.  Any  combination  is  good  enough 
to  "shoot  a  card." 

In  London  the  men  have  gone  a  step  further. 
It  is  not  uncommon  to  hear  a  young  man  boast 
that  he  never  owned  a  visiting  card  or  made  a 
"duty"  call  in  his  life.  Neither  there  nor  with 
us  does  a  man  count  as  a  "call"  a  quiet  cup  of 
tea  with  a  woman  he  likes,  and  a  cigarette  and 
quiet  talk  until  dressing  time.  Let  the  young 
women  have  courage  and  take  matters  into  their 
own  hands.  (The  older  ones  are  hopeless  and 
will  go  on  pushing  this  Juggernaut  car  over  each 
other's  weary  bodies,  until  the  end  of  the  chap 
ter.)  Let  them  have  the  courage  occasionally  to 
"refuse"  something,  to  keep  themselves  free 
from  aimless  engagements,  and  bring  this  paste 
board  war  to  a  close.  If  a  woman  is  attractive, 
she  will  be  asked  out  all  the  same,  never  fear! 
If  she  is  not  popular,  the  few  dozen  of  "egg-shell 
extra"  that  she  can  manage  to  slip  in  at  the 
front  doors  of  her  acquaintances  will  not  help 
her  much.  [ 


"THE    TREADMILL" 

If  this  matter  is,  however,  so  vastly  important 
in  women's  eyes,  why  not  adopt  the  continental 
and  diplomatic  custom  and  send  cards  by  post 
or  otherwise?  There,  if  a  new-comer  dines  out 
and  meets  twenty-five  people  for  the  first  time, 
cards  must  be  left  the  next  day  at  their  twenty- 
five  respective  residences.  How  the  cards  get 
there  is  of  no  importance.  It  is  a  diplomatic 
fiction  that  the  new  acquaintance  has  called  in 
person,  and  the  call  will  be  returned  within 
twenty-four  hours.  Think  of  the  saving  of  time 
and  strength!  In  Paris,  on  New  Year's  Day, 
people  send  cards  by  post  to  everybody  they 
wish  to  keep  up.  That  does  for  a  year,  and  no 
more  is  thought  about  it.  All  the  time  thus  gained 
can  be  given  to  culture  or  recreation. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  one  sees  so  few 
women  one  knows  at  our  picture  exhibitions  or 
flower  shows.  It  is  no  longer  a  mystery  to  me. 
They  are  all  busy  trotting  up  and  down  our  long 
side  streets  leaving  cards.  Hideous  vision!  Should 
Dante  by  any  chance  reincarnate,  he  would  find 
here  the  material  ready  made  to  his  hand  for  an 
eighth  circle  in  his  Inferno. 


[  '39  ] 


N°'  21 

"Like  Master  Like  Man." 


A  FREQUENT  and  naive  complaint 
one  hears,  is  of  the  unsatisfactoriness 
of  servants  generally,  and  their  ingrati 
tude  and  astonishing  lack  of  affection  for  their 
masters,  in  particular.  "After  all  I  have  done  for 
them,"  is  pretty  sure  to  sum  up  the  long  tale 
of  a  housewife's  griefs.  Of  all  the  delightful  in 
consistencies  that  grace  the  female  mind,  this 
latter  point  of  view  always  strikes  me  as  being 
the  most  complete.  I  artfully  lead  my  fair  friend 
on  to  tell  me  all  about  her  woes,  and  she  is  sure 
to  be  exquisitely  one-sided  and  quite  unconscious 
of  her  position.  "They  are  so  extravagant,  take 
so  little  interest  in  my  things,  and  leave  me  at 
a  moment's  notice,  if  they  get  an  idea  I  am  go 
ing  to  break  up.  Horrid  things!  I  wish  I  could 
do  without  them !  They  cause  me  endless  worry 
and  annoyance."  My  friend  is  very  nearly  right, 
— but  with  whom  lies  the  fault? 

The  conditions  were  bad  enough  years  ago, 
when  servants  were  kept  for  decades  in  the  same 
family,  descending  like  heirlooms  from  father  to 
son,  often  (abroad)  being  the  foster  sisters  or 
brothers  of  their  masters,  and  bound  to  the 
household  by  an  hundred  ties  of  sympathy  and 
tradition.  But  in  our  day,  and  in  America,  where 
there  is  rarely  even  a  common  language  or  na- 


"LIKE   M^STE         LIKE   M  <A 


tionality  to  form  a  bond,  and  where  households 
are  broken  up  with  such  facility,  the  relation  be 
tween  master  and  servant  is  often  so  strained  and 
so  unpleasant  that  we  risk  becoming  (what  for 
eigners  reproach  us  with  being),  a  nation  of 
hotel-dwellers.  Nor  is  this  class-feeling  greatly 
to  be  wondered  at.  The  contrary  would  be  as 
tonishing.  From  the  primitive  household,  where 
a  poor  neighbor  comes  in  as  "help,"  to  the 
"great"  establishment  where  the  butler  and 
housekeeper  eat  apart,  and  a  group  of  plush-clad 
flunkies  imported  from  England  adorn  the  en 
trance-hall,  nothing  could  be  better  contrived  to 
set  one  class  against  another  than  domestic  ser 
vice. 

Proverbs  have  grown  out  of  it  in  every  lan 
guage.  "No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet,"  and 
"familiarity  breeds  contempt,"  are  clear  enough. 
Our  comic  papers  are  full  of  the  misunderstand 
ings  and  absurdities  of  the  situation,  while  one 
rarely  sees  a  joke  made  about  the  other  ways 
that  the  poor  earn  their  living.  Think  of  it  for 
a  moment!  To  be  obliged  to  attend  people  at 
the  times  of  day  when  they  are  least  attractive, 
when  from  fatigue  or  temper  they  drop  the  mask 
that  society  glues  to  their  faces  so  many  hours 
in  the  twenty-four;  to  see  always  the  seamy  side 
of  life,  the  small  expedients,  the  aids  to  nature  ; 
to  stand  behind  a  chair  and  hear  an  acquain 
tance  of  your  master's  ridiculed,  who  has  just 
been  warmly  praised  to  his  face;  to  see  a  host- 


ess  who  has  been  graciously  urging  her  guests 
"not  to  go  so  soon,"  blurt  out  all  her  boredom 
and  thankfulness  "that  those  tiresome  So-and- 
So's"  are  "paid  off  at  last,"  as  soon  as  the  door 
is  closed  behind  them,  must  needs  give  a  curi 
ous  bent  to  a  servant's  mind.  They  see  their 
employers  insincere,  and  copy  them.  Many  a 
mistress  who  has  been  smilingly  assured  by  her 
maid  how  much  her  dress  becomes  her,  and  how 
young  she  is  looking,  would  be  thunderstruck  to 
hear  herself  laughed  at  and  criticised  (none  too 
delicately)  five  minutes  later  in  that  servant's 
talk. 

Servants  are  trained  from  their  youth  up  to 
conceal  their  true  feelings.  A  domestic  who  said 
what  she  thought  would  quickly  lose  her  place. 
Frankly,  is  it  not  asking  a  good  deal  to  expect 
a  maid  to  be  very  fond  of  a  lady  who  makes  her 
sit  up  night  after  night  until  the  small  hours  to 
unlace  her  bodice  or  take  down  her  hair;  or  im 
agine  a  valet  can  be  devoted  to  a  master  he  has 
to  get  into  bed  as  best  he  can  because  he  is  too 
tipsy  to  get  there  unaided?  Immortal  "Figaro" 
is  the  type!  Supple,  liar,  corrupt,  intelligent, — 
he  aids  his  master  and  laughs  at  him,  feathering 
his  own  nest  the  while.  There  is  a  saying  that 
"horses  corrupt  whoever  lives  with  them."  It 
would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  domestic  ser 
vice  demoralizes  alike  both  master  and  man. 

Already  we  are  obliged  to  depend  on  immi 
gration  for  our  servants  because  an  American 


"LIKE   M^fSTE^   LIKE  M <d 

revolts  from  the  false  position,  though  he  will 
ingly  accepts  longer  hours  or  harder  work  where 
he  has  no  one  around  him  but  his  equals.  It  is 
the  old  story  of  the  free,  hungry  wolf,  and  the 
well-fed,  but  chained,  house-dog.  The  foreigners 
that  immigration  now  brings  us,  from  countries 
where  great  class  distinctions  exist,  find  it  natu 
ral  to  "serve."  With  the  increase  in  education 
and  consequent  self-respect,  the  difficulty  of 
getting  efficient  and  contented  servants  will  in 
crease  with  us.  It  has  already  become  a  great 
social  problem  in  England.  The  trouble  lies  be 
neath  the  surface.  If  a  superior  class  accept  ser 
vice  at  all,  it  is  with  the  intention  of  quickly 
getting  money  enough  to  do  something  better. 
With  them  service  is  merely  the  means  to  an 
end.  A  first  step  on  the  ladder! 

Bad  masters  are  the  cause  of  so  much  suffer 
ing,  that  to  protect  themselves,  the  great  brother 
hood  of  servants  have  imagined  a  system  of 
keeping  run  of  "places,"  and  giving  them  a 
"character"  which  an  aspirant  can  find  out  with 
little  trouble.  This  organization  is  so  complete, 
and  so  well  carried  out,  that  a  household  where 
the  lady  has  a  "temper,"  where  the  food  is  poor, 
or  which  breaks  up  often,  can  rarely  get  a  first- 
class  domestic.  The  "place"  has  been  boycotted, 
a  good  servant  will  sooner  remain  idle  than  enter 
it.  If  circumstances  are  too  much  for  him  and 
he  accepts  the  situation,  it  is  with  his  eyes  open, 
knowing  infinitely  more  about  his  new  employ- 

[  H3] 


W^YS    tf    <BYW*AYS 


ers  and  their  failings  than  they  dream  of,  or  than 
they  could  possibly  find  out  about  him. 

One  thing  never  can  be  sufficiently  impressed 
on  people,  viz.  :  that  we  are  forced  to  live  with 
detectives,  always  behind  us  in  caps  or  dress- 
suits,  ready  to  note  every  careless  word,  every 
incautious  criticism  of  friend  or  acquaintance  — 
their  money  matters  or  their  love  affairs  —  and 
who  have  nothing  more  interesting  to  do  than 
to  repeat  what  they  have  heard,  with  embroid 
eries  and  additions  of  their  own.  Considering 
this,  and  that  nine  people  out  of  ten  talk  quite 
oblivious  of  their  servants'  presence,  it  is  to  be 
wondered  at  that  so  little  (and  not  that  so  much) 
trouble  is  made. 

i  It  always  amuses  me  when  I  ask  a  friend  if 
she  is  going  abroad  in  the  spring,  to  have  her 
say  "Hush!"  with  a  frightened  glance  towards 
the  door. 

"I  am;  but  I  do  not  want  the  servants  to 
know,  or  the  horrid  things  would  leave  me!" 

Poor,  simple  lady  !  They  knew  it  before  you 
did,  and  had  discussed  the  whole  matter  over 
their  "tea"  while  it  was  an  almost  unuttered 
thought  in  your  mind.  If  they  have  not  already 
given  you  notice,  it  is  because,  on  the  whole, 
your  house  suits  them  well  enough  for  the  pres 
ent,  while  they  look  about.  Do  not  worry  your 
simple  soul,  trying  to  keep  anything  from  them. 
They  know  the  amount  of  your  last  dressmak 
er's  bill,  and  the  row  your  husband  made  over 

[   '44  ] 


"LIKE  M^fSTE^   LIKE 

it.  They  know  how  much  you  would  have  liked 
young  "Croesus"  for  your  daughter,  and  the 
little  tricks  you  played  to  bring  that  marriage 
about.  They  know  why  you  are  no  longer  asked 
to  dine  at  Mrs.  Swell's,  which  is  more  than  you 
know  yourself.  Mrs.  Swell  explained  the  matter 
to  a  few  friends  over  her  lunch-table  recently, 
and  the  butler  told  your  maid  that  same  even 
ing,  who  was  laughing  at  the  story  as  she  put 
on  your  slippers! 

Before  we  blame  them  too  much,  however, 
let  us  remember  that  they  have  it  in  their  power 
to  make  great  trouble  if  they  choose.  And  con 
sidering  the  little  that  is  made  in  this  way,  we 
must  conclude  that,  on  the  whole,  they  are  bet 
ter  than  we  give  them  credit  for  being,  and  fill 
a  trying  situation  with  much  good  humor  and 
kindliness.  The  lady  who  is  astonished  that  they 
take  so  little  interest  in  her,  will  perhaps  feel 
differently  if  she  reflects  how  little  trouble  she 
has  given  herself  to  find  out  their  anxieties  and 
griefs,  their  temptations  and  heart-burnings; 
their  material  situation ;  whom  they  support  with 
their  slowly  earned  wages ;  what  claims  they  have 
on  them  from  outside.  If  she  will  also  reflect  on 
the  number  of  days  in  a  year  when  she  is  "not 
herself,"  when  headaches  or  disappointments 
rufHe  her  charming  temper,  she  may  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  is  too  much  to  exped:  all  the 
virtues  for  twenty  dollars  a  month. 

A  little  more  human  interest,  my  good  friends, 

[  Hi] 


W*ATS    fcf 


a  little  more  indulgence,  and  you  will  not  risk 
finding  yourself  in  the  position  of  the  lady  who 
wrote  me  that  last  summer  she  had  been  obliged 
to  keep  open  house  for  "'Cook'  tourists!" 


[  146] 


N°-  22 

An  English  Invasion  of  the 

Riviera 


WHEN  sixty  years  ago  Lord  Brougham, 
en  route  for  Italy,  was  thrown  from 
his  travelling  berline  and  his  leg  was 
broken,  near  the  Italian  hamlet  of  Cannes,  the 
Riviera  was  as  unknown  to  the  polite  world  as 
the  centre  of  China.  The  grand  tour  which  every 
young  aristocrat  made  with  his  tutor,  on  coming 
of  age,  only  included  crossing  from  France  into 
Italy  by  the  Alps.  It  was  the  occurrence  of  an 
unusually  severe  winter  in  Switzerland  that 
turned  Brougham  aside  into  the  longer  and  less 
travelled  route  'via  the  Corniche,  the  marvellous 
Roman  road  at  that  time  fallen  into  oblivion, 
and  little  used  even  by  the  local  peasantry. 

During  the  tedious  weeks  while  his  leg  was 
mending,  Lord  Brougham  amused  himself  by 
exploring  the  surrounding  country  in  his  car 
riage,  and  was  quick  to  realize  the  advantages 
of  the  climate,  and  appreciate  the  marvellous 
beauty  of  that  coast.  Before  the  broken  member 
was  whole  again,  he  had  bought  a  trad:  of  land 
and  begun  a  villa.  Small  seed,  to  furnish  such  a 
harvest!  To  the  traveller  of  to-day  the  Riviera 
offers  an  almost  unbroken  chain  of  beautiful 
residences  from  Marseilles  to  Genoa. 

[  147] 


A  Briton  willingly  follows  where  a  lord  leads, 
and  Cannes  became  the  centre  of  English  fash 
ion,  a  position  it  holds  to-day  in  spite  of  many 
attractive  rivals,  and  the  defection  of  Victoria 
who  comes  now  to  Cimiez,  back  of  Nice,  being 
unwilling  to  visit  Cannes  since  the  sudden  death 
there  of  the  Duke  of  Albany.  A  statue  of  Lord 
Brougham,  the  "discoverer"  of  the  littoral,  has 
been  erected  in  the  sunny  little  square  at  Cannes, 
and  the  English  have  in  many  other  ways, 
stamped  the  city  for  their  own. 

No  other  race  carry  their  individuality  with 
them  as  they  do.  They  can  live  years  in  a  coun 
try  and  assimilate  none  of  its  customs;  on  the 
contrary,  imposing  habits  of  their  own.  It  is  just 
this  that  makes  them  such  wonderful  colonizers, 
and  explains  why  you  will  find  little  groups  of 
English  people  drinking  ale  and  playing  golf  in 
the  shade  of  the  Pyramids  or  near  the  frozen 
slopes  of  Foosiyama.  The  real  inwardness  of  it  is 
that  they  are  a  dull  race,  and,  like  dull  people, 
despise  all  that  they  do  not  understand.  To  dif 
fer  from  them  is  to  be  in  the  wrong.  They  cannot 
argue  with  you ;  they  simply  know,  and  that  ends 
the  matter. 

I  had  a  discussion  recently  with  a  Briton  on 
the  pronunciation  of  a  word.  As  there  is  no  "In 
stitute,"  as  in  France,  to  settle  matters  of  this 
kind,  I  maintained  that  we  Americans  had  as 
much  authority  for  our  pronunciation  of  this 
particular  word  as  the  English.  The  answer  was 
characteristic.  f  148  1 


An  ENGLISH  INVASION  of  the  RIVIERA 

"I  know  I  am  right,"  said  my  Island  friend, 
"because  that  is  the  way  I  pronounce  it!" 

Walking  along  the  principal  streets  of  Cannes 
to-day,  you  might  imagine  yourself  (except  for 
the  climate)  at  Cowes  or  Brighton,  so  British 
are  the  shops  and  the  crowd  that  passes  them. 
Every  restaurant  advertises  "afternoon  tea"  and 
Bass's  ale,  and  every  other  sign  bears  a  London 
name.  This  little  matter  of  tea  is  particularly 
characteristic  of  the  way  the  English  have  im 
posed  a  taste  of  their  own  on  a  rebellious  nation. 
Nothing  is  further  from  the  French  taste  than 
tea-drinking,  and  yet  a  Parisian  lady  will  now 
invite  you  gravely  to  "five  o'clocker"  with  her, 
although  I  can  remember  when  that  beverage 
was  abhorred  by  the  French  as  a  medicine;  if 
you  had  asked  a  Frenchman  to  take  a  cup  of 
tea,  he  would  have  answered: 

"Why?  I  am  not  ill!" 

Even  Paris  (that  supreme  and  undisputed  ar 
biter  of  taste)  has  submitted  to  English  influ 
ence;  tailor-made  dresses  and  low-heeled  shoes 
have  become  as  "good  form"  in  France  as  in 
London.  The  last  two  Presidents  of  the  French 
Republic  have  taken  the  oath  of  office  dressed 
in  frock-coats  instead  of  the  dress  clothes  to 
which  French  officials  formerly  clung  as  to  the 
sacraments. 

The  municipalities  of  the  little  Southern  cities 
were  quick  to  seize  their  golden  opportunity, 
and  everything  was  done  to  detain  the  rich  Eng- 

[  H9  ] 


W^TS    fcf 


lish  wandering  down  towards  Italy.  Millions  were 
spent  in  transforming  their  cramped,  dirty,  lit 
tle  towns.  Wide  boulevards  bordered  with  palm 
and  eucalyptus  spread  their  sunny  lines  in  all 
directions,  being  baptized  Promenade  des  Anglais 
or  Boulevard  rifforia,  in  artful  flattery.  The 
narrow  mountain  roads  were  widened,  casinos 
and  theatres  built  and  carnival  fetes  organized, 
the  cities  offering  "cups"  for  yacht-  or  horse 
races,  and  giving  grounds  for  tennis  and  golf 
clubs.  Clever  Southern  people!  The  money  re 
turned  to  them  a  hundredfold,  and  they  lived 
to  see  their  wild  coast  become  the  chosen  resi 
dence  of  the  wealthiest  aristocracy  in  Europe, 
and  the  rocky  hillsides  blossom  into  terrace 
above  terrace  of  villa  gardens,  where  palm  and 
rose  and  geranium  vie  with  the  olive  and  the 
mimosa  to  shade  the  white  villas  from  the  sun. 
To-day,  no  little  town  on  the  coast  is  without 
its  English  chapel,  British  club,  tennis  ground, 
and  golf  links.  On  a  fair  day  at  Monte  Carlo, 
Nice,  or  Cannes,  the  prevailing  conversation  is 
in  English,  and  the  handsome,  well-dressed  sons 
of  Albion  lounge  along  beside  their  astonishing 
womenkind  as  thoroughly  at  home  as  on  Bond 
Street. 

Those  wonderful  English  women  are  the 
source  of  unending  marvel  and  amusement  to 
the  French.  They  can  never  understand  them, 
and  small  wonder,  for  with  the  exception  of 
the  small  "set"  that  surrounds  the  Prince  of 


An  ENGLISH  INVASION  of  the  RIVIERA 

Wales,  who  are  dressed  in  the  Parisian  fash 
ion,  all  English  women  seem  to  be  overwhelmed 
with  regret  at  not  being  born  men,  and  to  have 
spent  their  time  and  ingenuity  since,  in  trying 
to  make  up  for  nature's  mistake.  Every  mascu 
line  garment  is  twisted  by  them  to  fit  the  female 
figure;  their  conversation,  like  that  of  their  bro 
thers,  is  about  horses  and  dogs;  their  hats  and 
gloves  are  the  same  as  the  men's;  and  when  with 
their  fine,  large  feet  in  stout  shoes  they  start  off, 
with  that  particular  swinging  gait  that  makes  the 
skirt  seem  superfluous,  for  a  stroll  of  twenty 
miles  or  so,  Englishwomen  do  seem  to  the  un 
initiated  to  have  succeeded  in  their  ambition  of 
obliterating  the  difference  between  the  sexes. 

It  is  of  an  evening,  however,  when  conceal 
ment  is  no  longer  possible,  that  the  native  taste 
bursts  forth,  the  Anglo-Saxon  standing  declared 
in  all  her  plainness.  Strong  is  the  contrast  here, 
where  they  are  placed  side  by  side  with  all  that 
Europe  holds  of  elegant,  and  well-dressed. 
Frenchwomen,  whether  of  the  "world"  or  the 
"half-world,"  are  invariably  marvels  of  fitness 
and  freshness,  the  simplest  materials  being  con 
verted  by  their  skilful  touch  into  toilettes,  so 
artfully  adapted  to  the  wearer's  figure  and  com 
plexion,  as  to  raise  such  "creations"  to  the  level 
of  a  fine  art. 

An  artist  feels,  he  must  fix  on  canvas  that 
particular  combination  of  colors  or  that  won 
derful  line  of  bust  and  hip.  It  is  with  a  shudder 


WORLDLY 


that  he  turns  to  the  British  matron,  for  she  has 
probably,  for  this  occasion,  draped  herself  in  an 
"art  material,"  —  principally  "Liberty"  silks  of 
dirty  greens  and  blues  (aesthetic  shades!).  He  is 
tempted  to  cry  out  in  his  disgust:  "Oh,  Lib 
erty!  Liberty!  How  many  crimes  are  committed 
in  thy  name!"  It  is  one  of  the  oddest  things  in 
the  world  that  the  English  should  have  elected 
to  live  so  much  in  France,  for  there  are  proba 
bly  nowhere  two  peoples  so  diametrically  op 
posed  on  every  point,  or  who  so  persistently 
and  wilfully  misunderstand  each  other,  as  the 
English  and  the  French. 

It  has  been  my  fate  to  live  a  good  deal  on 
both  sides  of  the  Channel,  and  nothing  is  more 
amusing  than  to  hear  the  absurdities  that  are 
gravely  asserted  by  each  of  their  neighbors.  To 
a  Briton,  a  Frenchman  will  always  be  "either 
tiger  or  monkey"  according  to  Voltaire;  while 
to  the  French  mind  English  gravity  is  only  hy 
pocrisy  to  cover  every  vice.  Nothing  pleases  him 
so  much  as  a  great  scandal  in  England;  he  will 
gleefully  bring  you  a  paper  containing  the  ac 
count  of  it,  to  prove  how  true  is  his  opinion.  It 
is  quite  useless  to  explain  to  the  British  mind, 
as  1  have  often  tried  to  do,  that  all  Frenchmen 
do  not  pass  their  lives  drinking  absinthe  on  the 
boulevards;  and  as  Englishmen  seem  to  leave 
their  morals  in  a  valise  at  Dover  when  off  for  a 
visit  to  Paris,  to  be  picked  up  on  their  return, 
it  is  time  lost  to  try  to  make  a  Gaul  understand 

[  15"] 


An  ENGLISH  INVASION  of 'the  RIVIERA 

what  good  husbands  and  fathers  the  sons  of 
Albion  are. 

These  two  great  nations  seem  to  stand  in  the 
relation  to  each  other  that  Rome  and  Greece 
held.  The  English  are  the  conquerors  of  the 
world,  and  its  great  colonizers;  with  a  vast 
capital  in  which  wealth  and  misery  jostle  each 
other  on  the  streets;  a  hideous  conglomeration 
of  buildings  and  monuments,  without  form  and 
void,  very  much  as  old  Rome  must  have  been 
under  the  Caesars,  enormous  buildings  without 
taste,  and  enormous  wealth.  The  French  have 
inherited  the  temperament  of  the  Greeks.  The 
drama,  painting,  and  sculpture  are  the  preoccu 
pation  of  the  people.  The  yearly  exhibitions  are, 
for  a  month  before  they  open,  the  unique  sub 
ject  of  conversation  in  drawing-room  or  club. 
The  state  protects  the  artist  and  buys  his  work. 
Their  conservatoires  form  the  singers,  and  their 
schools  the  painters  and  architects  of  Europe 
and  America. 

The  English  copy  them  in  their  big  way,  just 
as  the  Romans  copied  the  masterpieces  of  Greek 
art,  while  they  despised  the  authors.  It  is  rare 
that  a  play  succeeds  in  Paris  which  is  not  in 
stantly  translated  and  produced  in  London, 
often  with  the  adapter's  name  printed  on  the 
programme  in  place  of  the  author's,  the  French 
man,  who  only  wrote  it,  being  ignored.  Just  as 
the  Greeks  faded  away  and  disappeared  before 
their  Roman  conquerors,  it  is  to  be  feared  that 

[  153] 


in  our  day  this  people  of  a  finer  clay  will  suc 
cumb.  The  "defects  of  their  qualities"  will  be 
their  ruin.  They  will  stop  at  home,  occupied  with 
literature  and  art,  perfecting  their  dainty  cities; 
while  their  tougher  neighbors  are  dominating  the 
globe,  imposing  their  language  and  customs  on 
the  conquered  peoples  of  the  earth.  One  feels 
this  on  the  Riviera.  It  reminds  you  of  the  cuckoo 
who,  once  installed  in  a  robin's  nest,  that  seems 
to  him  convenient  and  warmly  located  in  the  sun 
shine,  ends  by  kicking  out  all  the  young  robins. 


[  154] 


N°-  23 

A  Common  Weakness 


GOVERNMENTS  may  change  and  all 
the  conditions  of  life  be  modified,  but 
certain  ambitions  and  needs  of  man  re 
main  immutable.  Climates,  customs,  centuries, 
have  in  no  way  diminished  the  craving  for  con 
sideration,  the  desire  to  be  somebody,  to  bear 
some  mark  indicating  to  the  world  that  one  is 
not  as  other  men. 

For  centuries  titles  supplied  the  want.  This 
satisfaction  has  been  denied  to  us,  so  ambitious 
souls  are  obliged  to  seek  other  means  to  feed 
their  vanity. 

Even  before  we  were  born  into  the  world  of 
nations,  an  attempt  was  made  amongst  the  aris 
tocratically  minded  court  surrounding  our  chief 
magistrate,  to  form  a  society  that  should  (without 
the  name)  be  the  beginning  of  a  class  apart. 

The  order  of  the  Cincinnati  was  to  have  been 
the  nucleus  of  an  American  nobility.  The  ten 
dencies  of  this  society  are  revealed  by  the  fact 
that  primogeniture  was  its  fundamental  law. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  opposed  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  nor  more  at  variance  with  the 
declaration  of  our  independence,  than  the  inser 
tion  of  such  a  clause.  This  fact  was  discovered 
by  the  far-seeing  eye  of  Washington,  and  the 
society  was  suppressed  in  the  hope  (shared  by 

[  155  ] 


almost  all  contemporaries)  that  with  new  forms 
of  government  the  nature  of  man  would  undergo 
a  transformation  and  rise  above  such  puerile 
ambitions. 

Time  has  shown  the  fallacy  of  these  dreams. 
All  that  has  been  accomplished  is  the  displace 
ment  of  the  objective  point;  the  desire,  the  mania 
for  a  handle  to  one's  name  is  as  prevalent  as  ever. 
Leave  the  centres  of  civilization  and  wander  in 
the  small  towns  and  villages  of  our  country. 
Every  other  man  you  meet  is  introduced  as  the 
Colonel  or  the  Judge,  and  you  will  do  well  not 
to  inquire  too  closely  into  the  matter,  nor  to  ask 
to  see  the  title-deeds  to  such  distinctions.  On  the 
other  hand,  to  omit  his  prefix  in  addressing  one 
of  these  local  magnates,  would  be  to  offend  him 
deeply.  The  women-folk  were  quick  to  borrow 
a  little  of  this  distinction,  and  in  Washington 
to-day  one  is  gravely  presented  to  Mrs.  Senator 
Smith  or  Mrs.  Colonel  Jones.  The  climax  be 
ing  reached  by  one  aspiring  female  who  styles 
herself  on  her  visiting  cards,  "Mrs.  Acting-As 
sistant-Paymaster  Robinson."  If  by  any  chance 
it  should  occur  to  any  one  to  ask  her  motive  in 
sporting  such  an  unwieldy  handle,  she  would  say 
that  she  did  it  "because  one  can't  be  going  about 
explaining  that  one  is  not  just  ordinary  Mrs. 
Robinson  or  Thompson,  like  the  thousand  others 
in  town."  A  woman  who  cannot  find  an  excuse 
for  assuming  such  a  prefix  will  sometime  have 
recourse  to  another  stratagem,  to  particularize  an 

[  -56] 


WEAKNESS 


ordinary  surname.  She  remembers  that  her  hus 
band,  who  ever  since  he  was  born  has  been  known 
to  everybody  as  Jim,  is  the  proud  possessor  of 
the  middle  name  Ivanhoe,  or  Pericles  (probably 
the  result  of  a  romantic  mother's  reading);  so 
one  fine  day  the  young  couple  bloom  out  as 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  Pericles  Sparks,  to  the  amuse 
ment  of  their  friends,  their  own  satisfaction,  and 
the  hopeless  confusion  of  their  tradespeople. 

Not  long  ago  a  Westerner,  who  went  abroad 
with  a  travelling  show,  was  received  with  enthu 
siasm  in  England  because  it  was  thought  "The 
Honorable"  which  preceded  his  name  on  his 
cards  implied  that  although  an  American  he  was 
somehow  the  son  of  an  earl.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  owed  this  title  to  having  sat,  many  years  be 
fore  in  the  Senate  of  a  far-western  State.  He 
will  cling  to  that  "Honorable"  and  print  it  on 
his  cards  while  life  lasts.  I  was  told  the  other 
day  of  an  American  carpet  warrior  who  appeared 
at  a  court  function  abroad  decorated  with  every 
college  badge,  and  football  medal  in  his  posses 
sion,  to  which  he  added  at  the  last  moment  a 
brass  trunk  check,  to  complete  the  brilliancy  of 
the  effect.  This  latter  decoration  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  Heir  Apparent,  who  inquired 
the  meaning  of  the  mystic  "416"  upon  it.  This 
would  have  been  a  "facer"  to  any  but  a  true  son 
of  Uncle  Sam.  Nothing  daunted,  however,  our 
"General"  replied  "That,  Sir,  is  the  number  of 
pitched  battles  I  have  won." 

[  157] 


WO<P^L<DLY 


I  have  my  doubts  as  to  the  absolute  veracity 
of  this  tale.  But  that  the  son  of  one  of  our  generals, 
appeared  not  long  ago  at  a  public  reception 
abroad,  wearing  his  father's  medals  and  decora 
tions,  is  said  to  be  true.  Decorations  on  the  Con 
tinent  are  official  badges  of  distinction  conferred 
and  recognized  by  the  different  governments. 
An  American  who  wears,  out  of  his  own  coun 
try,  an  army  or  college  badge  which  has  no 
official  existence,  properly  speaking,  being  recog 
nized  by  no  government,  but  which  is  made  in 
tentionally  to  look  as  much  as  possible  like  the 
"Legion  d'Honneur,"  is  deliberately  imposing 
on  the  ignorance  of  foreigners,  and  is  but  little 
less  of  a  pretentious  idiot  than  the  owners  of  the 
trunk  check  and  the  borrowed  decorations. 

There  seems  no  end  to  the  ways  a  little 
ambitious  game  can  be  played.  One  device  much 
in  favor  is  for  the  wife  to  attach  her  own  family 
name  to  that  of  her  husband  by  means  of  a  hy 
phen.  By  this  arrangement  she  does  not  entirely 
lose  her  individuality  ;  as  a  result  we  have  a  splen 
did  assortment  of  hybrid  names,  such  as  Van 
Cortland-Smith  and  Beekman-Brown.  Be  they 
never  so  incongruous  these  double-barrelled 
cognomens  serve  their  purpose  and  raise  ambi 
tious  mortals  above  the  level  of  other  Smiths 
and  Browns.  Finding  that  this  arrangement  works 
well  in  their  own  case,  it  is  passed  on  to  the 
next  generation.  There  are  no  more  Toms  and 
Bills  in  these  aspiring  days.  The  little  boys  are 


WEAKNESS 


all  Cadwalladers  or  Carrolls.  Their  school-fel 
lows,  however,  work  sad  havoc  with  these  high- 
sounding  titles  and  quickly  abbreviate  them  into 
humble  "Cad"  or  "Rol." 

It  is  surprising  to  notice  what  a  number  of 
middle-aged  gentlemen  have  blossomed  out  of 
late  with  decorations  in  their  button-holes  ac 
cording  to  the  foreign  fashion.  On  inquiry  I  have 
discovered  that  these  ornaments  designate  mem 
bers  of  the  G.  A.  R.,  the  Loyal  Legion,  or  some 
local  Post,  for  the  rosettes  differ  in  form  and 
color.  When  these  gentlemen  travel  abroad,  to 
reduce  their  waists  or  improve  their  minds,  the 
effects  on  the  hotel  waiters  and  cabmen  must  be 
immense.  They  will  be  charged  three  times  the 
ordinary  tariff  instead  of  only  the  double  which 
is  the  stranger's  usual  fate  at  the  hands  of  sim 
ple-minded  foreigners.  The  satisfaction  must  be 
cheap,  however,  at  that  price. 

Even  our  wise  men  and  sages  do  not  seem  to 
have  escaped  the  contagion.  One  sees  profes 
sors  and  clergymen  (who  ought  to  set  a  better 
example)  trailing  half  a  dozen  letters  after  their 
names,  initials  which  to  the  initiated  doubtless 
mean  something,  but  which  are  also  intended  to 
fill  the  souls  of  the  ignorant  with  envy.  I  can  re 
call  but  one  case  of  a  foreign  decoration  being  re 
fused  by  a  compatriot.  He  was  a  genius  and  we  all 
know  that  geniuses  are  crazy.  This  gentleman 
had  done  something  particularly  gratifying  to  an 
Eastern  potentate,  who  in  return  offered  him 

[  159] 


one  of  his  second-best  orders.  It  was  at  once 
refused.  When  urged  on  him  a  second  time  our 
countryman  lost  his  temper  and  answered,  "If 
you  want  to  give  it  to  somebody,  present  it  to 
my  valet.  He  is  most  anxious  to  be  decorated." 
And  it  was  done! 

It  does  not  require  a  deeply  meditative  mind 
to  discover  the  motives  of  ambitious  struggles. 
The  first  and  strongest  illusion  of  the  human 
mind  is  to  believe  that  we  are  different  from  our 
fellows,  and  our  natural  impulse  is  to  try  and  im 
press  this  belief  upon  others. 

Pride  of  birth  is  but  one  of  the  manifestations 
of  the  universal  weakness — invariably  taking 
stronger  and  stronger  hold  of  the  people,  who 
from  the  modest  dimension  of  their  income,  or 
other  untoward  circumstances,  can  find  no  out 
ward  and  visible  form  with  which  to  dazzle  the 
world.  You  will  find  that  a  desire  to  shine  is  the 
secret  of  most  of  the  tips  and  presents  that  are 
given  while  travelling  or  visiting,  for  they  can 
hardly  be  attributed  to  pure  spontaneous  gene 
rosity. 

How  many  people  does  one  meet  who  talk 
of  their  poor  and  unsuccessful  relatives  while 
omitting  to  mention  rich  and  powerful  connec 
tions?  We  are  told  that  far  from  blaming  such  a 
tendency  we  are  to  admire  it.  That  it  is  proper 
pride  to  put  one's  best  foot  forward  and  keep 
an  offending  member  well  out  of  sight,  that  the 
man  who  wears  a  rosette  in  the  button-hole  of 

[  160] 


WEAKNESS 


his  coat  and  has  half  the  alphabet  galloping  after 
his  name,  is  an  honor  to  his  family. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  deride  this  weakness  in 
others,  for  in  my  heart  I  am  persuaded  that  if 
I  lived  in  China,  nothing  would  please  me  more 
than  to  have  my  cap  adorned  with  a  coral  but 
ton,  while  if  fate  had  cast  my  life  in  the  pleas 
ant  places  of  central  Africa,  a  ring  in  my  nose 
would  doubtless  have  filled  my  soul  with  joy. 
The  fact  that  I  share  this  weakness  does  not, 
however,  prevent  my  laughing  at  such  folly  in 
others. 


'jftfty^^ 

N°-  24 

Changing  Paris 

PARIS  is  beginning  to  show  signs  of  the 
coming  "^Exhibition  of  1900,"  and  is  in 
many  ways  going  through  a  curious  stage 
of  transformation,  socially  as  well  as  materially. 
The  Palais  de  f  Industrie^  familiar  to  all  visitors 
here,  as  the  home  of  the  Salons,  the  Horse 
Shows,  and  a  thousand  gay  fetes  and  merry-mak 
ings,  is  being  torn  down  to  make  way  for  the 
new  avenue  leading,  with  the  bridge  Alexander 
III.,  from  the  Champs  Elysees  to  the  Esplanade 
des  Invalides.  This  thoroughfare  with  the  gilded 
dome  of  Napoleon's  tomb  to  close  its  perspec 
tive  is  intended  to  be  the  feature  of  the  coming 
"  show." 

Curious  irony  of  things  in  this  world!  The 
Palais  de  F  Industrie  was  intended  to  be  the  one 
permanent  building  of  the  exhibition  of  1854. 
An  old  "Journal"  I  often  read  tells  how  the 
writer  saw  the  long  line  of  gilded  coaches  (bor 
rowed  from  Versailles  for  the  occasion),  eight 
horses  apiece,  led  by  footmen — horses  and  men 
blazing  in  embroidered  trappings — leave  the 
Tuileries  and  proceed  at  a  walk  to  the  great 
gateway  of  the  now  disappearing  palace.  Vic 
toria  and  Albert  who  were  on  an  official  visit 
to  the  Emperor  were  the  first  to  alight;  then 
Eugenie  in  the  radiance  of  her  perfect  beauty 

[  -62  ] 


PrfRIS 


stepped  from  the  coach  (sad  omen!)  that  fifty 
years  before  had  taken  Josephine  in  tears  to 
Malmaison. 

It  may  interest  some  ladies  to  know  how  an 
Empress  was  dressed  on  that  spring  morning 
forty-four  years  ago.  She  wore  rose-colored  silk 
with  an  over-dress  (I  think  that  is  what  it  is 
called)  of  black  lace  flounces,  immense  hoops, 
and  a  black  Chantilly  lace  shawl.  Her  hair,  a 
brilliant  golden  auburn,  was  dressed  low  on  the 
temples,  covering  the  ears,  and  hung  down  her 
back  in  a  gold  net  almost  to  her  waist;  at  the 
extreme  back  of  her  head  was  placed  a  black 
and  rose-colored  bonnet;  open  "flowing"  sleeves 
showed  her  bare  arms,  one-buttoned,  straw- 
colored  gloves,  and  ruby  bracelets;  she  carried 
a  tiny  rose-colored  parasol  not  a  foot  in  diam 
eter. 

How  England's  great  sovereign  was  dressed 
the  writer  of  the  journal  does  not  so  well  re 
member,  for  in  those  days  Eugenie  was  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes,  and  people  rarely  looked 
at  anything  else  when  they  could  get  a  glimpse 
of  her  lovely  face. 

It  appears,  however,  that  the  Queen  sported 
an  India  shawl,  hoops,  and  a  straw  bonnet,  which 
was  not  particularly  becoming  to  her  round 
face.  She  and  Napoleon  entered  the  building 
first;  the  Empress  (who  was  in  delicate  health) 
was  carried  in  an  open  chair,  with  Prince  Albert 
walking  at  her  side,  a  marvellously  handsome 


couple  to  follow  the  two  little  sovereigns  who 
preceded  them.  The  writer  had  by  bribery  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  places  in  an  entresol  window 
under  the  archway,  and  was  greatly  impressed  to 
see  those  four  great  ones  laughing  and  joking 
together  over  Eugenie's  troubles  in  getting  her 
hoops  into  the  narrow  chair! 

What  changes  have  come  to  that  laughing 
group!  Two  are  dead,  one  dying  in  exile  and 
disgrace;  and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  in  the  two 
rheumatic  old  ladies  whom  one  sees  pottering 
about  the  Riviera  now,  any  trace  of  those  smil 
ing  wives.  In  France  it  is  as  if  a  tidal  wave  had 
swept  over  Napoleon's  court.  Only  the  old 
palace  stood  severely  back  from  the  Champs 
Elysees,  as  if  guarding  its  souvenirs.  The  pick 
of  the  mason  has  brought  down  the  proud  gate 
way  which  its  imperial  builder  fondly  imagined 
was  to  last  for  ages.  The  Tuileries  preceded  it 
into  oblivion.  The  Alpha  and  Omega  of  that 
gorgeous  pageant  of  the  fifties  vanished  like  a 
mirage ! 

It  is  not  here  alone  one  finds  Paris  changing. 
A  railway  is  being  brought  along  the  quais  with 
its  depot  at  the  Invalides.  Another  is  to  find  its 
terminus  opposite  the  Louvre,  where  the  pic 
turesque  ruin  of  the  Cour  des  Comptes  has  stood 
half-hidden  by  the  trees  since  1870.  A  line  of 
electric  cars  crosses  the  Rond  Point,  in  spite  of 
the  opposition  of  all  the  neighborhood,  anxious 
to  keep,  at  least  that  fine  perspective  free  from 


CH^NGINQ    P^tRIS 


such  desecration.  And,  last  but  not  least,  there 
is  every  prospect  of  an  immense  system  of  ele 
vated  railways  being  inaugurated  in  connection 
with  the  coming  world's  fair.  The  direction  of 
this  kind  of  improvement  is  entirely  in  the  hands 
of  the  Municipal  Council,  and  that  body  has  be 
come  (here  in  Paris)  extremely  radical,  not  to 
say  communistic;  and  takes  pleasure  in  annoying 
the  inhabitants  of  the  richer  quarters  of  the  city, 
under  pretext  of  improvements  and  facilities  of 
circulation. 

It  is  easy  to  see  how  strong  the  feeling  is 
against  the  aristocratic  class.  Nor  is  it  much 
to  be  wondered  at !  The  aristocracy  seem  to  try 
to  make  themselves  unpopular.  They  detest 
the  republic,  which  has  shorn  them  of  their 
splendor,  and  do  everything  in  their  power  (so 
cially  and  diplomatically  their  power  is  still 
great)  to  interfere  with  and  frustrate  the  plans 
of  the  government.  Only  last  year  they  seized 
an  opportunity  at  the  funerals  of  the  Duchesse 
d'Alen^on  and  the  Due  d'Aumale  to  make  a 
royalist  manifestation  of  the  most  pronounced 
character.  The  young  Duchesse  d'Orleans  was 
publicly  spoken  of  and  treated  as  the  "Queen 
of  France;"  at  the  private  receptions  given  dur 
ing  her  stay  in  Paris  the  same  ceremonial  was 
observed  as  if  she  had  been  really  on  the  throne. 
The  young  Duke,  her  husband,  was  not  present, 
being  in  exile  as  a  pretender,  but  armorial  bear 
ings  of  the  "reigning  family,"  as  their  followers 

[  ^65] 


WO'P^L'DLY    W<AYS    fcf 

insist  on  calling  them,  were  hung  around  the 
Madeleine  and  on  the  funeral-cars  of  both  the 
illustrious  dead. 

The  government  is  singularly  lenient  to  the 
aristocrats.  If  a  poor  man  cries  "Long  live  the 
Commune!"  in  the  street,  he  is  arrested.  The 
police,  however,  stood  quietly  by  and  let  a  group 
of  the  old  nobility  shout"  Long  live  the  Queen ! " 
as  the  train  containing  the  young  Duchesse 
d'Orleans  moved  out  of  the  station.  The  secret 
of  this  leniency  toward  the  "pretenders"  to  the 
throne,  is  that  they  are  very  little  feared.  If  it 
amuses  a  set  of  wealthy  people  to  play  at  hold 
ing  a  court,  the  strong  government  of  the  re 
public  cares  not  one  jot.  The  Orleans  family 
have  never  been  popular  in  France,  and  the  young 
pretender's  marriage  to  an  Austrian  Archduch 
ess  last  year  has  not  improved  matters. 

It  is  the  fashion  in  the  conservative  Faubourg 
St.  Germain,  to  ridicule  the  President,  his  wife 
and  their  bourgeois  surroundings,  as  forty  years 
ago  the  parents  of  these  aristocrats  affedled  to 
despise  the  imperial  -parvenus.  The  swells  amused 
themselves  during  the  official  visit  of  the  Em 
peror  and  Empress  of  Russia  last  year  (which 
was  gall  and  wormwood  to  them)  by  exaggerat 
ing  and  repeating  all  the  small  slips  in  etiquette 
that  the  President,  an  intelligent,  but  simple- 
mannered  gentleman,  was  supposed  to  have  made 
during  the  sojourn  of  his  imperial  guests. 

Both  M.  and  Mme.  Faure  are  extremely  pop- 
[  '66] 


P^RIS 


ular  with  the  people,  and  are  heartily  cheered 
whenever  they  are  seen  in  public.  The  President 
is  the  despair  of  the  lovers  of  routine  and  etiquette, 
walking  in  and  out  of  his  Palais  of  the  Elysee, 
like  a  private  individual,  and  breaking  all  rules 
and  regulations.  He  is  fond  of  riding,  and  jogs 
off  to  the  Bois  of  a  morning  with  no  escort,  and 
often  of  an  evening  drops  in  at  the  theatres  in  a 
casual  way.  The  other  night  at  the  Fran^ais  he 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  foyer  des  artistes  (a 
beautiful  greenroom,  hung  with  historical  por 
traits  of  great  actors  and  actresses,  one  of  the 
prides  of  the  theatre)  in  this  informal  manner. 
Mme.  Bartet,  who  happened  to  be  there  alone 
at  the  time,  was  so  impressed  at  such  an  unpre 
cedented  event  that  she  fainted,  and  the  Presi 
dent  had  to  run  for  water  and  help  revive  her. 
The  next  day  he  sent  the  great  actress  a  beauti 
ful  vase  of  Sevres  china,  full  of  water,  in  souvenir. 

To  a  lover  of  old  things  and  old  ways  any 
changes  in  the  Paris  he  has  known  and  loved 
are  a  sad  trial.  Henri  Drumont,  in  his  delightful 
Mon  Vieux  Paris,  deplores  this  modern  mania 
for  reform  which  has  done  such  good  work  in 
the  new  quarters  but  should,  he  thinks,  respect 
the  historic  streets  and  shady  squares. 

One  naturally  feels  that  the  sights  familiar  in 
youth  lose  by  being  transformed  and  doubts 
the  necessity  of  such  improvements. 

The  Rome  of  my  childhood  is  no  more!  Half 
of  Cairo  was  ruthlessly  transformed  in  sixty-five 

[  -67] 


into  a  hideous  caricature  of  modern  Paris.  Milan 
has  been  remodelled,  each  city  losing  in  charm 
as  it  gained  in  convenience. 

So  far  Paris  has  held  her  own.  The  spirit  of 
the  city  has  not  been  lost,  as  in  the  other  capitals. 
The  fair  metropolis  of  France,  in  spite  of  many 
transformations,  still  holds  her  admirers  with  a 
dominating  sway.  She  pours  out  for  them  a 
strong  elixir  that  once  tasted  takes  the  flavor  out 
of  existence  in  other  cities  and  makes  her  adorers, 
when  in  exile,  thirst  for  another  draught  of  the 
subtle  nectar. 


[  '68  ] 


Contentment 


AS  the  result  of  certain  ideal  standards 
adopted  among  us  when  this  country 
was  still  in  long  clothes,  a  time  when 
the  equality  of  man  was  the  new  "fad"  of  many 
nations,  and  the  prizes  of  life  first  came  within  the 
reach  of  those  fortunate  or  unscrupulous  enough 
to  seize  them,  it  became  the  fashion  (and  has  re 
mained  so  down  to  our  day)  to  teach  every  little 
boy  attending  a  village  school  to  look  upon  him 
self  as  a  possible  future  President,  and  to  assume 
that  every  girl  was  preparing  herself  for  the  posi 
tion  of  first  lady  in  the  land.  This  is  very  well  in 
theory,  and  practice  has  shown  that,  as  Napoleon 
said,  "  Every  private  may  carry  a  marshal's  baton 
in  his  knapsack."  Alongside  of  the  good  such  in 
centive  may  produce,  it  is  only  fair,  however,  to 
consider  also  how  much  harm  may  lie  in  this  way 
of  presenting  life  to  a  child's  mind. 

As  a  first  result  of  such  tall  talking  we  find 
in  America,  more  than  in  any  other  country,  an 
inclination  among  all  classes  to  leave  the  sur 
roundings  where  they  were  born  and  bend  their 
energies  to  struggling  out  of  the  position  in  life 
occupied  by  their  parents.  There  are  not  want 
ing  theorists  who  hold  that  this  is  a  quality  in  a 
nation,  and  that  it  leads  to  great  results.  A  prop 
osition  open  to  discussion. 

[  169] 


It  is  doubtless  satisfactory  to  designate  first 
magistrates  who  have  raised  themselves  from 
humble  beginnings  to  that  proud  position,  and 
there  are  times  when  it  is  proper  to  recall  such 
achievements  to  the  rising  generation.  But  as 
youth  is  proverbially  over-confident  it  might 
also  be  well  to  point  out,  without  danger  of  dis 
couraging  our  sanguine  youngsters,  that  for  one 
who  has  succeeded,  about  ten  million  confident 
American  youths,  full  of  ambition  and  lofty  aims, 
have  been  obliged  to  content  themselves  with 
being  honest  men  in  humble  positions,  even  as 
their  fathers  before  them.  A  sad  humiliation,  I 
grant  you,  for  a  self-respecting  citizen,  to  end 
life  just  where  his  father  did;  often  the  case, 
nevertheless,  in  this  hard  world,  where  so  many 
fine  qualities  go  unappreciated, — no  societies 
having  as  yet  been  formed  to  seek  out  "mute, 
inglorious  Miltons,"  and  ask  to  crown  them! 

To  descend  abruptly  from  the  sublime,  to 
very  near  the  ridiculous, — I  had  need  last  sum 
mer  of  a  boy  to  go  with  a  lady  on  a  trap  and  help 
about  the  stable.  So  I  applied  to  a  friend's  coach 
man,  a  hard-working  Englishman,  who  was  de 
lighted  to  get  the  place  for  his  nephew — an 
American-born  boy — the  child  of  a  sister,  in  great 
need.  As  the  boy's  clothes  were  hardly  present 
able,  a  simple  livery  was  made  for  him;  from 
that  moment  he  pined,  and  finally  announced 
he  was  going  to  leave.  In  answer  to  my  surprised 
inquiries,  I  discovered  that  a  friend  of  his  from 


CONTENTMENT 


the  same  tenement-house  in  which  he  had  lived 
in  New  York  had  appeared  in  the  village,  and 
sooner  than  be  seen  in  livery  by  his  play-fellow 
he  preferred  abandoning  his  good  place,  the 
chance  of  being  of  aid  to  his  mother,  and  learn 
ing  an  honorable  way  to  earn  his  living.  Remon 
strances  were  in  vain ;  to  the  wrath  of  his  uncle, 
he  departed.  The  boy  had,  at  his  school,  heard 
so  much  about  everybody  being  born  equal  and 
every  American  being  a  gentleman  by  right  of 
inheritance,  that  he  had  taken  himself  seriously, 
and  despised  a  position  his  uncle  was  proud  to 
hold,  preferring  elegant  leisure  in  his  native 
tenement-house  to  the  humiliation  of  a  livery. 
When  at  college  I  had  rooms  in  a  neat  cot 
tage  owned  by  an  American  family.  The  father 
was  a  butcher,  as  were  his  sons.  The  only  daugh 
ter  was  exceedingly  pretty.  The  hard-worked 
mother  conceived  high  hopes  for  this  favorite 
child.  She  was  sent  to  a  boarding-school,  from 
which  she  returned  entirely  unsettled  for  life, 
having  learned  little  except  to  be  ashamed  of  her 
parents  and  to  play  on  the  piano.  One  of  these 
instruments  of  torture  was  bought,  and  a  room 
fitted  up  as  a  parlor  for  the  daughter's  use.  As 
the  family  were  fairly  well-to-do,  she  was  allowed 
to  dress  out  of  all  keeping  with  her  parents' 
position,  and,  egged  on  by  her  mother,  tried 
her  best  to  marry  a  rich  "student."  Failing  in 
this,  she  became  discontented,  unhappy,  and 
finally  there  was  a  scandal,  this  poor  victim  of  a 


WO<R^L<DLY 


false  ambition  going  to  swell  the  vast  tide  of  a 
city's  vice.  With  a  sensible  education,  based  on 
the  idea  that  her  father's  trade  was  honorable 
and  that  her  mission  in  life  was  to  aid  her  mo 
ther  in  the  daily  work  until  she  might  marry 
and  go  to  her  husband,  prepared  by  experience 
to  cook  his  dinner  and  keep  his  house  clean, 
and  finally  bring  up  her  children  to  be  honest 
men  and  women,  this  girl  would  have  found  a 
happy  future  waiting  for  her,  and  have  been  of 
some  good  in  her  humble  way. 

It  is  useless  to  multiply  illustrations.  One  has 
but  to  look  about  him  in  this  unsettled  country 
of  ours.  The  other  day  in  front  of  my  door  the 
perennial  ditch  was  being  dug  for  some  gas-pipe 
or  other.  Two  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  con 
sented  to  do  this  labor  wore  frock-coats  and  top 
hats  —  or  what  had  once  been  those  articles  of 
attire  —  instead  of  comfortable  and  appropriate 
overalls.  Why?  Because,  like  the  stable-boy,  to 
have  worn  any  distinctive  dress  would  have  been 
in  their  minds  to  stamp  themselves  as  belong 
ing  to  an  inferior  class,  and  so  interfered  with 
their  chances  of  representing  this  country  later 
at  t^e  Court  of  St.  James,  or  presiding  over  the 
Senate,  —  positions  (to  judge  by  their  criticism 
of  the  present  incumbents)  they  feel  no  doubt 
as  to  their  ability  to  fill. 

The  same  spirit  pervades  every  trade.  The 
youth  who  shaves  me  is  not  a  barber;  he  has 
only  accepted  this  position  until  he  has  time  to 

[   172  1 


CONTENTMENT 


do  something  better.  The  waiter  who  brings  me 
my  chop  at  a  down-town  restaurant  would  re 
sign  his  place  if  he  were  requested  to  shave  his 
flowing  mustache,  and  is  secretly  studying  law. 
I  lose  all  patience  with  my  countrymen  as  I 
think  over  it!  Surely  we  are  not  such  a  race  of 
snobs  as  not  to  recognize  that  a  good  barber  is 
more  to  be  respected  than  a  poor  lawyer;  that, 
as  a  French  saying  goes,  //  n'y  a  pas  de  sot  metier. 
It  is  only  the  fool  who  is  ashamed  of  his  trade. 

But  enough  of  preaching.  I  had  intended — 
when  I  took  up  my  pen  to-day — to  write  on 
quite  another  form  of  this  modern  folly,  this 
eternal  struggle  upward  into  circles  for  which  the 
struggler  is  fitted  neither  by  his  birth  nor  his 
education;  the  above  was  to  have  been  but  a 
preface  to  the  matter  I  had  in  mind,  viz.,  "so 
cial  climbers,"  those  scourges  of  modern  society, 
the  people  whom  no  rebuffs  will  discourage  and 
no  cold  shoulder  chill,  whose  efforts  have  done 
so  much  to  make  our  countrymen  a  byword 
abroad. 

As  many  philosophers  teach  that  trouble  only 
is  positive,  happiness  being  merely  relative;  that 
in  any  case  trouble  is  pretty  equally  distributed 
among  the  different  conditions  of  mankind;  that, 
excepting  the  destitute  and  physically  afflicted, 
all  God's  creatures  have  a  share  of  joy  in  their 
lives,  would  it  not  be  more  logical,  as  well  as 
more  conducive  to  the  general  good,  if  a  little 
more  were  done  to  make  the  young  contented 

[  173] 


WdYS    far 


with  their  lot  in  life,  instead  of  constantly  sug 
gesting  to  a  race  already  prone  to  be  unsettled, 
that  nothing  short  of  the  top  is  worthy  of  an 
American  citizen? 


[  174] 


N°-  26 

The  Climber 


THAT  form  of  misplaced  ambition,  which 
is  the  subject  of  the  preceding  chapter, 
can  only  be  regarded  seriously  when  it 
occurs  among  simple  and  sincere  people,  who, 
however  deluded,  honestly  believe  that  they  are 
doing  their  duty  to  themselves  and  their  families 
when  they  move  heaven  and  earth  to  rise  a  few 
steps  in  the  world.  The  moment  we  find  ambi 
tion  taking  a  purely  social  form,  it  becomes  ri 
diculous.  The  aim  is  so  paltry  in  comparison  with 
the  effort,  and  so  out  of  proportion  with  the  en 
ergy  exerted  to  attain  it,  that  one  can  only  laugh 
and  wonder!  Unfortunately,  signs  of  this  puerile 
spirit  (peculiar  to  the  last  quarter  of  the  nine 
teenth  century)  can  be  seen  on  all  hands  and  in 
almost  every  society. 

That  any  man  or  woman  should  make  it  the 
unique  aim  and  object  of  existence  to  get  into  a 
certain  "set,"  not  from  any  hope  of  profit  or 
benefit,  nor  from  the  belief  that  it  is  composed 
of  brilliant  and  amusing  people,  but  simply  be 
cause  it  passes  for  being  exclusive  and  difficult 
of  access,  does  at  first  seem  incredible. 

That  humble  young  painters  or  singers  should 
long  to  know  personally  the  great  lights  of  their 
professions,  and  should  strive  to  be  accepted 
among  them  is  easily  understood,  since  the  as- 

[  175] 


pirants  can  reap  but  benefit,  present  and  future, 
from  such  companionship.  That  a  rising  politi 
cian  should  deem  it  all-important  to  be  on 
friendly  terms  with  the  "bosses"  is  not  aston 
ishing,  for  those  magnates  have  it  in  their  power 
to  make  or  mar  his  fortune.  But  in  a  milieu  as 
fluctuating  as  any  social  circle  must  necessarily 
be,  shading  off  on  all  sides  and  changing  as  con 
stantly  as  light  on  water,  the  end  can  never  be 
considered  as  achieved  or  the  goal  attained. 

Neither  does  any  particular  result  accompany 
success,  more  substantial  than  the  moral  one 
which  lies  in  self-congratulation.  That,  however, 
is  enough  for  a  climber  if  she  is  bitten  with  the 
"ascending"  madness.  (I  say  "she,"  because 
this  form  of  ambition  is  more  frequent  among 
women,  although  by  no  means  unknown  to  the 
sterner  sex.) 

It  amuses  me  vastly  to  sit  in  my  corner  and 
watch  one  of  thcsefin-df-sftcle  diplomatists  work 
X>ut  her  little  problem.  She  generally  comes 
plunging  into  our  city  from  outside,  hot  for 
conquest,  making  acquaintances  right  and  left, 
indiscriminately ;  thus  falling  an  easy  prey  to  the 
wolves  that  prowl  around  the  edges  of  society, 
waiting  for  just  such  lambs  to  devour.  Her  first 
entertainments  are  worth  attending  for  she  has 
ingeniously  contrived  to  get  together  all  the 
people  she  should  have  left  out,  and  failed  to 
attract  the  social  lights  and  powers  of  the  mo 
ment.  If  she  be  a  quick-witted  lady,  she  soon 

[  176] 


THE    CLIMBED 


sees  the  error  of  her  ways  and  begins  a  process 
of  "weeding" — as  difficult  as  it  is  unwise,  each 
rejected  "weed"  instantly  becoming  an  enemy 
for  life,  not  to  speak  of  the  risk  she,  in  her  ig 
norance,  runs  of  mistaking  for"  detrimentals  "  the 
fines  fleurs  of  the  worldly  parterre.  Ah!  the  way 
of  the  Climber  is  hard;  she  now  begins  to  see 
that  her  path  is  not  strewn  with  flowers. 

One  tactful  person  of  this  kind,  whose  grad 
ual  "unfolding"  was  watched  with  much  amuse 
ment  and  wonder  by  her  acquaintances,  avoided 
all  these  errors  by  going  in  early  for  a  "dear 
friend."  Having,  after  mature  reflection,  chosen 
her  guide  among  the  most  exclusive  of  the  young 
matrons,  she  proceeded  quietly  to  pay  her  court 
en  regie.  Flattering  little  notes,  boxes  of  candy, 
and  bunches  of  flowers  were  among  the  forms 
her  devotion  took.  As  a  natural  result,  these  two 
ladies  became  inseparable,  and  the  most  hermeti 
cally  sealed  doors  opened  before  the  new  arrival. 

A  talent  for  music  or  acting  is  another  aid.  A. 
few  years  ago  an  entire  family  were  floated  into 
the  desired  haven  on  the  waves  of  the  sister's 
voice,  and  one  young  couple  achieved  success  by 
the  husband's  aptitude  for  games  and  sports.  In 
the  latter  case  it  was  the  man  of  the  family  who 
did  the  work,  dragging  his  wife  up  after  him.  A 
polo  pony  is  hardly  one's  idea  of  a  battle-horse, 
but  in  this  case  it  bore  its  rider  on  to  success. 

Once  climbers  have  succeeded  in  installing 
themselves  in  the  stronghold  of  their  ambitions, 


they  become  more  exclusive  than  their  new 
friends  ever  dreamed  of  being,  and  it  tries  one's 
self-restraint  to  hear  these  new  arrivals  deploring 
"the  levelling  tendencies  of  the  age,"  or  wonder 
ing  "how  nice  people  can  be  beginning  to  call 
on  those  horrid  So-and-Sos.  Their  father  sold 
shoes,  you  know."  This  ultra-exclusiveness  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at.  The  only  attraction  the 
circle  they  have  just  entered  has  for  the  climbers 
is  its  exclusiveness,  and  they  do  not  intend  that 
it  shall  lose  its  market  value  in  their  hands. 
Like  Baudelaire,  they  believe  that  "it  is  only 
the  small  number  saved  that  makes  the  charm 
of  Paradise."  Having  spent  hard  cash  in  this  in 
vestment,  they  have  every  intention  of  getting 
their  money's  worth. 

In  order  to  give  outsiders  a  vivid  impression 
of  the  footing  on  which  they  stand  with  the  great 
of  the  world,  all  the  women  they  have  just  met 
become  Nellys  and  Jennys,  and  all  the  men  Dicks 
and  Freds — behind  their  backs,  bien  entendu — 
for  Mrs.  "Newcome"  has  not  yet  reached  that 
point  of  intimacy  which  warrants  using  such  ab 
breviations  directly  to  the  owners. 

Another  amiable  weakness  common  to  the 
climber  is  that  of  knowing  everybody.  No  name 
can  be  mentioned  at  home  or  abroad  but  Parvenu 
happens  to  be  on  the  most  intimate  terms  with 
the  owner,  and  when  he  is  conversing,  great  names 
drop  out  of  his  mouth  as  plentifully  as  did  the 
pearls  from  the  pretty  lips  of  the  girl  in  the  fairy 

[  178] 


THE    CLIMBED 


story.  All  the  world  knows  how  such  a  gentle 
man,  being  asked  on  his  return  from  the  East 
if  he  had  seen  "the  Dardanelles,"  answered, 
"Oh,  dear,  yes!  I  dined  with  them  several 
times!"  thus  settling  satisfactorily  his  standing 
in  the  Orient! 

Climbing,  like  every  other  habit,  soon  takes 
possession  of  the  whole  nature.  To  abstain  from 
it  is  torture.  Napoleon,  we  are  told,  found  it 
impossible  to  rest  contented  on  his  successes, 
but  was  impelled  onward  by  a  force  stronger 
than  his  volition.  In  some  such  spirit  the  ambi 
tious  souls  here  referred  to,  after  "the  Conquest 
of  America"  and  the  discovery  that  the  fruit  of 
their  struggles  was  not  worth  very  much,  victory 
having  brought  the  inevitable  satiety  in  its  wake, 
sail  away  in  search  of  new  fields  of  adventure. 
They  have  long  ago  left  behind  the  friends  and 
acquaintances  of  their  childhood.  Relations  they 
apparently  have  none,  which  accounts  for  the  cu 
rious  phenomenon  that  a  parvenu  is  never  in 
mourning.  As  no  friendships  bind  them  to  their 
new  circle,  the  ties  are  easily  loosened.  Why 
should  they  care  for  one  city  more  than  for  an 
other,  unless  it  offer  more  of  the  sport  they  love? 
This  continent  has  become  tame,  since  there  is 
no  longer  any  struggle,  while  over  the  sea  vast 
hunting  grounds  and  game  worthy  of  their 
powder,  form  an  irresistible  temptation — old  and 
exclusive  societies  to  be  besieged,  and  contests 
to  be  waged  compared  to  which  their  American 

[  179] 


experiences  are  but  light  skirmishes.  As  the 
polo  pony  is  supposed  to  pant  for  the  fray,  so 
the  hearts  of  social  conquerors  warm  within 
them  at  the  prospect  of  more  brilliant  victories. 
The  pleasure  of  following  them  on  their  hunt 
ing  parties  abroad  will  have  to  be  deferred,  so 
vast  is  the  subject,  so  full  of  thrilling  adventure 
and,  alas !  also  of  humiliating  defeat. 


The  Last  of  the  Dandies 


SO  completely  has  the  dandy  disappeared 
from  among  us,  that  even  the  word  has 
an  old-time  look  (as  if  it  had  strayed  out 
of  some  half-forgotten  novel  or  "keepsake"), 
raising  in  our  minds  the  picture  of  a  slender, 
clean-shaven  youth,  in  very  tight  unmentionables 
strapped  under  his  feet,  a  dark  green  frock-coat 
with  a  collar  up  to  the  ears  and  a  stock  whose 
folds  cover  his  chest,  butter-colored  gloves,  and 
a  hat — oh!  a  hat  that  would  collect  a  crowd  in 
two  minutes  in  any  neighborhood !  A  gold-headed 
stick,  and  a  quizzing  glass,  with  a  black  ribbon 
an  inch  wide,  complete  the  toilet.  In  such  a  rig 
did  the  swells  of  the  last  generation  stroll  down 
Pall  Mall  or  drive  their  tilburys  in  the  Bois. 

The  recent  illness  of  the  Prince  de  Sagan  has 
made  a  strange  and  sad  impression  in  many  cir 
cles  in  Paris,  for  he  has  always  been  a  favorite, 
and  is  the  last  surviving  type  of  a  now  extinct 
species.  He  is  the  last  Dandy!  No  understudy 
will  be  found  to  fill  his  role — the  dude  and  the 
swell  are  whole  generations  away  from  the  dandy, 
of  which  they  are  but  feeble  reflections — the 
comedy  will  have  to  be  continued  now,  without 
its  leading  gentleman.  With  his  head  of  silvery 
hair,  his  eye-glass  and  his  wonderful  waistcoats, 
he  held  the  first  place  in  the  "high  life"  of  the 
French  capital.  [  1 8 1  ] 


No  first  night  or  ball  was  complete  without 
him,  Sagan.  The  very  mention  of  his  name  in 
their  articles  must  have  kept  the  wolf  from  the 
door  of  needy  reporters.  No  debutante ',  social  or 
theatrical,  felt  sure  of  her  success  until  it  had 
received  the  hall-mark  of  his  approval.  When 
he  assisted  at  a  dress  rehearsal,  the  actors  and  the 
managers  paid  him  more  attention  than  Sarcey 
or  Sardou,  for  he  was  known  to  be  the  real  ar 
biter  of  their  fate.  His  word  was  law,  the  world 
bowed  before  it  as  before  the  will  of  an  autocrat. 
Mature  matrons  received  his  dictates  with  the 
same  reverence  that  the  Old  Guard  evinced  for 
Napoleon's  orders.  Had  he  not  led  them  on  to 
victory  in  their  youth? 

On  the  boulevards  or  at  a  race-course,  he 
was  the  one  person  always  known  by  sight  and 
pointed  out.  "There  goes  Sagan!"  He  had  be 
come  an  institution.  One  does  not  know  exactly 
how  or  why  he  achieved  the  position,  which 
made  him  the  most  followed,  flattered,  and  cop 
ied  man  of  his  day.  It  certainly  was  unique! 

The  Prince  of  Sagan  is  descended  from 
Maurice  de  Saxe  (the  natural  son  of  the  King 
of  Saxony  and  Aurora  of  Koenigsmark),  who  in 
his  day  shone  brilliantly  at  the  French  court  and 
was  so  madly  loved  by  Adrienne  Lecouvreur. 
From  his  great  ancestor,  Sagan  inherited  the 
title  of  Grand  Duke  of  Courland  (the  estates 
have  been  absorbed  into  a  neighboring  empire). 
Nevertheless,  he  is  still  an  R.  H.,  and  when 

[  182] 


THE    L^ST   OF    THE    DANDIES 

crowned  heads  visit  Paris  they  dine  with  him 
and  receive  him  on  a  footing  of  equality.  He 
married  a  great  fortune,  and  the  daughter  of 
the  banker  Selliere.  Their  house  on  the  Es 
planade  des  Invalides  has  been  for  years  the 
centre  of  aristocratic  life  in  Paris ;  not  the  most 
exclusive  circle,  but  certainly  the  gayest  of  this 
gay  capital,  and  from  the  days  of  Louis  Philippe 
he  has  given  the  keynote  to  the  fast  set. 

Oddly  enough,  he  has  always  been  a  great 
favorite  with  the  lower  classes  (a  popularity 
shared  by  all  the  famous  dandies  of  history). 
The  people  appear  to  find  in  them  the  person 
ification  of  all  aspirations  toward  the  elegant 
and  the  ideal.  Alcibiades,  Buckingham,  the  Due 
de  Richelieu,  Lord  Seymour,  Comte  d'Orsay, 
Brummel,  Grammont-Caderousse,  shared  this 
favor,  and  have  remained  legendary  characters, 
to  whom  their  disdain  for  everything  vulgar, 
their  worship  of  their  own  persons,  and  many 
costly  follies  gave  an  ephemeral  empire.  Their 
power  was  the  more  arbitrary  and  despotic  in 
that  it  was  only  nominal  and  undefined,  allow 
ing  them  to  rule  over  the  fashions,  the  tastes, 
and  the  pastimes  of  their  contemporaries  with 
undivided  sway,  making  them  envied,  obeyed, 
loved,  but  rarely  overthrown. 

It  has  been  asserted  by  some  writers  that 
dandies  are  necessary  and  useful  to  a  nation 
(Thackeray  admired  them  and  pointed  out  that 
they  have  a  most  difficult  and  delicate  role  to 

[  183] 


13 


play,  hence  their  rarity),  and  that  these  butter 
flies,  as  one  finds  them  in  the  novels  of  that 
day,  the  de  Marsys,  the  Pelhams,  the  Maxime 
de  Trailles,  are  indispensable  to  the  perfection 
of  society.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  to  a  country 
to  have  no  dandies,  those  supreme  virtuosos  of 
taste  and  distinction.  Germany,  which  glories  in 
Mozart  and  Kant,  Grethe  and  Humboldt,  the 
country  of  deep  thinkers  and  brave  soldiers, 
never  had  a  great  dandy,  and  so  has  remained 
behind  England  or  France  in  all  that  constitutes 
the  graceful  side  of  life,  the  refinements  of  social 
intercourse,  and  the  art  of  living.  France  will 
perceive  too  late,  after  he  has  disappeared,  the 
loss  she  has  sustained  when  this  Prince,  Grand 
Seigneur,  has  ceased  to  embellish  by  his  presence 
her  race-courses  and  "first  nights."  A  reputation 
like  his  cannot  be  improvised  in  a  moment,  and 
he  has  no  pupils. 

Never  did  the  aristocracy  of  a  country  stand 
in  greater  need  of  such  a  representation,  than  in 
these  days  of  tramcars  and  "fixed-price"  restau 
rants.  An  entire  "art"  dies  with  him.  It  has  been 
whispered  that  he  has  not  entirely  justified  his 
reputation,  that  the  accounts  of  his  exploits  as 
a  haut  viveur  have  gained  in  the  telling.  Never 
theless  he  dominated  an  epoch,  rising  above  the 
tumultuous  and  levelling  society  of  his  day,  a 
tardy  Don  Quixote,  of  the  knighthood  of  pleas 
ures,  fetes,  loves  and  prodigalities,  which  are  no 
longer  of  our  time.  His  great  name,  his  grand 

[   ^4] 


THE    L^fST    OF    THE    DANDIES 

manner,  his  elderly  graces,  his  serene  careless 
ness,  made  him  a  being  by  himself.  No  one  will 
succeed  this  master  of  departed  elegances.  If  he 
does  not  recover  from  his  attack,  if  the  paralysis 
does  not  leave  that  poor  brain,  worn  out  with 
doing  nothing,  we  can  honestly  say  that  he  is  the 
last  of  his  kind. 

An  original  and  independent  thinker  has  as 
serted  that  civilizations,  societies,  empires,  and 
republics  go  down  to  posterity  typified  for  the 
admiration  of  mankind,  each  under  the  form  of 
some  hero.  Emerson  would  have  given  a  place 
in  his  Pantheon  to  Sagan.  For  it  is  he  who  sus 
tained  the  traditions  and  became  the  type  of  that 
distinguished  and  frivolous  society,  which  judged 
that  serious  things  were  of  no  importance,  en 
thusiasm  a  waste  of  time,  literature  a  bore;  that 
nothing  was  interesting  and  worthy  of  occupy 
ing  their  attention  except  the  elegant  distractions 
that  helped  to  pass  their  days — and  nights!  He 
had  the  merit  (?)  in  these  days  of  the  practical 
and  the  commonplace,  of  preserving  in  his  gra 
cious  person  all  the  charming  uselessness  of  a 
courtier  in  a  country  where  there  was  no  longer 
a  court. 

What  a  strange  sight  it  would  be  if  this  de 
parting  dandy  could,  before  he  leaves  for  ever 
the  theatre  of  so  many  triumphs,  take  his  place 
at  some  street  corner,  and  review  the  shades  of 
the  companions  his  long  life  had  thrown  him 
with,  the  endless  procession  of  departed  belles 

[  185] 


and  beaux,  who,  in  their  youth,  had,  under  his 
rule,  helped  to  didate  the  fashions  and  lead  the 
sports  of  a  world. 


[  '86  ] 


*$W^W^ 

2^-28 
A  Nation  on  the  Wing 


ON  being  taken  the  other  day  through 
a  large  and  costly  residence,  with  the 
thoroughness  that  only  the  owner  of  a 
new  house  has  the  cruelty  to  inflict  on  his  vic 
tims,  not  allowing  them  to  pass  a  closet  or  an 
electric  bell  without  having  its  particular  use  and 
convenience  explained,  forcing  them  to  look  up 
coal-slides,  and  down  air-shafts  and  to  visit  every 
secret  place,  from  the  cellar  to  the  fire-escape, 
I  noticed  that  a  peculiar  arrangement  of  the  rooms 
repeated  itself  on  each  floor,  and  several  times  on 
a  floor.  I  remarked  it  to  my  host. 

"You  observe  it,"  he  said,  with  a  blush  of 
pride,  "it  is  my  wife's  idea!  The  truth  is,  my 
daughters  are  of  a  marrying  age,  and  my  sons 
starting  out  for  themselves;  this  house  will  soon 
be  much  too  big  for  two  old  people  to  live  in 
alone.  We  have  planned  it  so  that  at  any  time 
it  can  be  changed  into  an  apartment  house  at  a 
nominal  expense.  It  is  even  wired  and  plumbed 
with  that  end  in  view!" 

This  answer  positively  took  my  breath  away. 
I  looked  at  my  host  in  amazement.  It  was  hard 
to  believe  that  a  man  past  middle  age,  who  after 
years  of  hardest  toil  could  afford  to  put  half  a 
million  into  a  house  for  himself  and  his  children, 
and  store  it  with  beautiful  things,  would  have 

[  -87] 


the  courage  to  look  so  far  into  the  future  as  to 
see  all  his  work  undone,  his  home  turned  to 
another  use  and  himself  and  his  wife  afloat  in 
the  world  without  a  roof  over  their  wealthy  old 
heads. 

Surely  this  was  the  Spirit  of  the  Age  in  its 
purest  expression,  the  more  strikingly  so  that 
he  seemed  to  feel  pride  rather  than  anything 
else  in  his  ingenious  combination. 

He  liked  the  city  he  had  built  in  well  enough 
now,  but  nothing  proved  to  him  that  he  would 
like  it  later.  He  and  his  wife  had  lived  in  twenty 
cities  since  they  began  their  brave  fight  with 
Fortune,  far  away  in  a  little  Eastern  town.  They 
had  since  changed  their  abode  with  each  ascend 
ing  rung  of  the  ladder  of  success,  and  beyond  a 
faded  daguerreotype  or  two  of  their  children  and 
a  few  modest  pieces  of  jewelry,  stored  away  in  cot 
ton,  it  is  doubtful  if  they  owned  a  single  object 
belonging  to  their  early  life. 

Another  case  occurs  to  me.  Near  the  village 
where  I  pass  my  summers,  there  lived  an  elderly, 
childless  couple  on  a  splendid  estate  combin 
ing  everything  a  fastidious  taste  could  demand. 
One  fine  morning  this  place  was  sold,  the  im 
portant  library  divided  between  the  village  and 
their  native  city,  the  furniture  sold  or  given 
away, — everything  went;  at  the  end  the  things 
no  one  wanted  were  made  into  a  bon-fire  and 
burned. 

A  neighbor  asking  why  all  this  was  being 


THE 


done  was  told  by  the  lady,  "We  were  tired  of  it 
all  and  have  decided  to  be  c  Bohemians'  for  the 
rest  of  our  lives."  This  couple  are  now  wander 
ing  about  Europe  and  half  a  dozen  trunks  con 
tain  their  belongings. 

These  are,  of  course,  extreme  cases  and  must 
be  taken  for  what  they  are  worth  ;  nevertheless, 
they  are  straws  showing  which  way  the  wind 
blows,  signs  of  the  times  that  he  who  runs  may 
read.  I  do  not  run,  but  I  often  saunter  up  our 
principal  avenue,  and  always  find  myself  won 
dering  what  will  be  the  future  of  the  splendid 
residences  that  grace  that  thoroughfare  as  it  nears 
the  Park;  the  ascending  tide  of  trade  is  already 
circling  round  them  and  each  year  sees  one  or 
more  crumble  away  and  disappear. 

The  finer  buildings  may  remain,  turned  into 
clubs  or  restaurants,  but  the  greater  part  of  the 
newer  ones  are  so  ill-adapted  to  any  other  use 
than  that  for  which  they  are  built  that  their  future 
seems  obscure. 

That  fashion  will  flit  away  from  its  present 
haunts  there  can  be  little  doubt;  the  city  below  the 
Park  is  sure  to  be  given  up  to  business,  and  even 
the  fine  frontage  on  that  green  space  will  sooner 
or  later  be  occupied  by  hotels,  if  not  stores;  and 
he  who  builds  with  any  belief  in  the  permanency 
of  his  surroundings  must  indeed  be  of  a  hopeful 
disposition. 

A  good  lady  occupying  a  delightful  corner  on 
this  same  avenue,  opposite  a  one-story  florist's 
shop,  said:  [  189  ] 


WrfYS 


"I  shall  remain  here  until  they  build  across  the 
way;  then  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  move." 

So  after  all  the  man  who  is  contented  to  live 
in  a  future  apartment  house,  may  not  be  so  very 
far  wrong. 

A  case  of  the  opposite  kind  is  that  of  a  great 
millionaire,  who,  dying,  left  his  house  and  its  col 
lections  to  his  eldest  son  and  his  grandson  after 
him,  on  the  condition  that  they  should  continue 
to  live  in  it. 

Here  was  an  attempt  to  keep  together  a  home 
with  its  memories  and  associations.  What  has 
been  the  result?  The  street  that  was  a  charming 
centre  for  residences  twenty  years  ago  has  be 
come  a  "slum;"  the  unfortunate  heirs  find  them 
selves  with  a  house  on  their  hands  that  they 
cannot  live  in  and  are  forbidden  to  rent  or  sell. 
As  a  final  result  the  will  must  in  all  probability 
be  broken  and  the  matter  ended. 

Of  course  the  reason  for  a  great  deal  of  this 
is  the  phenomenal  growth  of  our  larger  cities. 
Hundreds  of  families  who  would  gladly  remain 
in  their  old  homes  are  fairly  pushed  out  of  them 
by  the  growth  of  business. 

Everything  has  its  limits  and  a  time  must 
come  when  our  cities  will  cease  to  expand  or  when 
centres  will  be  formed  as  in  London  or  Paris, 
where  generations  may  succeed  each  other  in 
the  same  homes.  So  far,  I  see  no  indications  of 
any  such  crystallization  in  this  our  big  city;  we 
seem  to  be  condemned  like  the  "Wandering 


O  3^    THE    WINQ 


Jew"  or  poor  little  "Joe"  to  be  perpetually 
"moving  on." 

At  a  dinner  of  young  people  not  long  ago  a 
Frenchman  visiting  our  country,  expressed  his 
surprise  on  hearing  a  girl  speak  of  "not  remem 
bering  the  house  she  was  born  in."  Piqued  by  his 
manner  the  young  lady  answered: 

"We  are  twenty-four  at  this  table.  I  do  not 
believe  there  is  one  person  here  living  in  the 
house  in  which  he  or  she  was  born."  This  asser 
tion  raised  a  murmur  of  dissent  around  the  table; 
on  a  census  being  taken  it  proved,  however,  to 
be  true. 

How  can  one  expect,  under  circumstances  like 
these,  to  find  any  great  respect  among  young 
people  for  home  life  or  the  conservative  side  of 
existence?  They  are  born  as  it  were  on  the  wing, 
and  on  the  wing  will  they  live. 

The  conditions  of  life  in  this  country,  although 
contributing  largely  to  such  a  state  of  affairs, 
must  not  be  held,  however,  entirely  responsible. 
Underlying  our  civilization  and  culture,  there 
is  still  strong  in  us  a  wild  nomadic  strain  inher 
ited  from  a  thousand  generations  of  wandering 
ancestors,  which  breaks  out  so  soon  as  man  is 
freed  from  the  restraint  incumbent  on  bread- 
winning  for  his  family.  The  moment  there  is 
wealth  or  even  a  modest  income  insured,  comes 
the  inclination  to  cut  loose  from  the  dull  rou 
tine  of  business  and  duty,  returning  instinctively 
to  the  migratory  habits  of  primitive  man. 


LT 


We  are  not  the  only  nation  that  has  given  it 
self  up  to  globe-trotting;  it  is  strong  in  the 
English,  in  spite  of  their  conservative  education, 
and  it  is  surprising  to  see  the  number  of  formerly 
stay-at-home  French  and  Germans  one  meets 
wandering  in  foreign  lands. 

In  1855,  a  Londoner  advertised  the  plan  he 
had  conceived  of  taking  some  people  over  to 
visit  the  International  Exhibition  in  Paris.  For 
a  fixed  sum  paid  in  advance  he  offered  to  pro 
vide  everything  and  act  as  courier  to  the  party, 
and  succeeded  with  the  greatest  difficulty  in  get 
ting  together  ten  people.  From  this  modest  be 
ginning  has  grown  the  vast  undertaking  that 
to-day  covers  the  globe  with  tourists,  from  the 
frozen  seas  where  they  "do"  the  midnight  sun, 
to  the  deserts  three  thousand  miles  up  the  Nile. 

As  I  was  returning  a  couple  of  years  ago  'via 
Vienna  from  Constantinople,  the  train  was  filled 
with  a  party  of  our  compatriots  conducted  by  an 
agency  of  this  kind  —  simple  people  of  small 
means  who,  twenty  years  ago,  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  leaving  their  homes  for  a  trip 
in  the  East  as  they  would  of  starting  off  in  bal 
loons  en  route  for  the  inter-stellar  spaces. 

I  doubted  at  the  time  as  to  the  amount  of  in 
formation  and  appreciation  they  brought  to  bear 
on  their  travels,  so  I  took  occasion  to  draw  one 
of  the  thin,  unsmiling  women  into  conversa 
tion,  asking  her  where  they  intended  stopping 
next. 


THE 


"  At  Buda-Pesth,"  she  answered.  I  said  in  some 
amusement: 

"  But  that  was  Buda-Pesth  we  visited  so  care 
fully  yesterday." 

"Oh,  was  it,"  she  replied,  without  any  visible 
change  on  her  face,  "  I  thought  we  had  not  got 
there  yet."  Apparently  it  was  enough  for  her  to 
be  travelling;  the  rest  was  of  little  importance. 
Later  in  the  day,  when  asked  if  she  had  visited 
a  certain  old  city  in  Germany,  she  told  me  she 
had  but  would  never  go  there  again:  "They 
gave  us  such  poor  coffee  at  the  hotel."  Again 
later  in  speaking  to  her  husband,  who  seemed 
a  trifle  vague  as  to  whether  he  had  seen  Nurem 
berg  or  not,  she  said: 

"  Why,  you  remember  it  very  well  ;  it  was  there 
you  bought  those  nice  overshoes!" 

All  of  which  left  me  with  some  doubts  in  my 
mind  as  to  the  cultivating  influences  of  foreign 
travel  on  their  minds. 

You  cannot  change  a  leopard's  spots,  neither 
can  you  alter  the  nature  of  a  race,  and  one  of 
the  strongest  characteristics  of  the  Anglo-Saxon, 
is  the  nomadic  instinct.  How  often  one  hears 
people  say: 

"  I  am  not  going  to  sit  at  home  and  take  care 
of  my  furniture.  I  want  to  see  something  of  the 
world  before  I  am  too  old."  Lately,  a  sprightly 
maiden  of  uncertain  years,  just  returned  from 
a  long  trip  abroad,  was  asked  if  she  intended  now 
to  settle  down. 

[  193  ] 


fcf    <BYW*AYS 


"Settle  down,  indeed!  I'm  a  butterfly  and  I 
never  expect  to  settle  down." 

There  is  certainly  food  here  for  reflection. 
Why  should  we  be  more  inclined  to  wander 
than  our  neighbors?  Perhaps  it  is  in  a  measure 
due  to  our  nervous,  restless  temperament,  which 
is  itself  the  result  of  our  climate;  but  whatever 
the  cause  is,  inability  to  remain  long  in  one  place 
is  having  a  most  unfortunate  influence  on  our 
social  life.  When  everyone  is  on  the  move  or 
longing  to  be,  it  becomes  difficult  to  form  any 
but  the  most  superficial  ties;  strong  friendships 
become  impossible,  the  most  intimate  family  re 
lations  are  loosened. 

If  one  were  of  a  speculative  frame  of  mind 
and  chose  to  take  as  the  basis  for  a  calculation 
the  increase  in  tourists  between  1855,  when  the 
ten  pioneers  started  for  Paris,  and  the  number 
"personally  conducted"  over  land  and  sea  to 
day,  and  then  glance  forward  at  what  the  future 
will  be  if  this  ratio  of  increase  is  maintained  the 
result  would  be  something  too  awful  for  words. 
For  if  ten  have  become  a  million  in  forty  years, 
what  will  be  the  total  in  1955?  Nothing  less  than 
entire  nations  given  over  to  sight-seeing,  passing 
their  lives  and  incomes  in  rushing  aimlessly 
about. 

If  the  facilities  of  communication  increase  as 
they  undoubtedly  will  with  the  demand,  the 
prospect  becomes  nearer  the  idea  of  a  "  Walpur- 
gis  Night"  than  anything  else.  For  the  earth 

[   '94  ] 


THE 


and  the  sea  will  be  covered  and  the  air  filled  with 
every  form  of  whirling,  flying,  plunging  device 
to  get  men  quickly  from  one  place  to  another. 

Every  human  being  on  the  globe  will  be  fly 
ing  South  for  the  cold  months  and  North  for 
the  hot  season. 

As  personally  conducted  tours  have  been  so 
satisfactory,  agencies  will  be  started  to  lead  us 
through  all  the  stages  of  existence.  Parents  will 
subscribe  on  the  birth  of  their  children  to  have 
them  personally  conducted  through  life  and 
everything  explained  as  it  is  done  at  present  in 
the  galleries  abroad;  food,  lodging  and  reading 
matter,  husbands  and  wives  will  be  provided  by 
contract,  to  be  taken  back  and  changed  if  unsat 
isfactory,  as  the  big  stores  do  with  their  goods. 
Delightful  prospect!  Homes  will  become  super 
fluous,  parents  and  children  will  only  meet  when 
their  "tours"  happen  to  cross  each  other.  Our 
great-grandchildren  will  float  through  life  freed 
from  every  responsibility  and  more  perfectly 
independent  than  even  that  delightful  dreamer, 
Bellamy,  ventured  to  predict. 


[195] 


N°'  29 

Husks 


AMONG  the  Protestants  driven  from 
France  by  that  astute  and  liberal- 
minded  sovereign  Louis  XIV.,  were 
a  colony  of  weavers,  who  as  all  the  world  knows, 
settled  at  Spitalfields  in  England,  where  their 
descendants  weave  silk  to  this  day. 

On  their  arrival  in  Great  Britain,  before  the 
looms  could  be  set  up  and  a  market  found  for 
their  industry,  the  exiles  were  reduced  to  the 
last  extremity  of  destitution  and  hunger.  Look 
ing  about  them  for  anything  that  could  be  uti 
lized  for  food,  they  discovered  that  the  owners 
of  English  slaughter-houses  threw  away  as  worth 
less,  the  tails  of  the  cattle  they  killed.  Like  all 
the  poor  in  France,  these  wanderers  were  excel 
lent  cooks,  and  knew  that  at  home  such  caudal 
appendages  were  highly  valued  for  the  tender 
ness  and  flavor  of  the  meat.  To  the  amazement 
and  disgust  of  the  English  villagers,  the  new 
arrivals  proceeded  to  colled:  this  "refuse"  and 
carry  it  home  for  food.  As  the  first  principle  of 
French  culinary  art  is  the  pot-au-feu,  the  tails 
were  mostly  converted  into  soup,  on  which  the 
exiles  thrived  and  feasted. 

Their  neighbors,  envious  at  seeing  the  de 
spised  French  indulging  daily  in  savory  dishes, 
unknown  to  English  palates,  and  tempted  like 

[  -96  ] 


HUSKS 

"Jack's"  giant  by  the  smell  of  "fresh  meat," 
began  to  inquire  into  the  matter,  and  slowly 
realized  how,  in  their  ignorance,  they  had  been 
throwing  away  succulent  and  delicate  food. 
The  news  of  this  discovery  gradually  spreading 
through  all  classes,  "ox-tail"  became  and  has 
remained  the  national  English  soup. 

If  this  veracious  tale  could  be  twisted  into  a 
metaphor,  it  would  serve  marvellously  to  illus 
trate  the  position  of  the  entire  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
and  especially  that  of  their  American  descen 
dants  as  regards  the  Latin  peoples.  For  foolish 
prodigality  and  reckless,  ignorant  extravagance, 
however,  we  leave  our  English  cousins  far  be 
hind. 

Two  American  hotels  come  to  my  mind,  as 
different  in  their  appearance  and  management 
as  they  are  geographically  asunder.  Both  are 
types  and  illustrations  of  the  wilful  waste  that 
has  recently  excited  Mr.  Ian  Maclaren's  com 
ment,  and  the  woeful  want  (of  good  food)  that 
is  the  result.  At  one,  a  dreary  shingle  construc 
tion  on  a  treeless  island,  off  our  New  England 
coast,  where  the  ideas  of  the  landlord  and  his 
guests  have  remained  as  unchanged  and  primi 
tive  as  the  island  itself,  I  found  on  inquiry  that 
all  articles  of  food  coming  from  the  first  table 
were  thrown  into  the  sea;  and  I  have  myself 
seen  chickens  hardly  touched,  rounds  of  beef, 
trays  of  vegetables,  and  every  variety  of  cake 
and  dessert  tossed  to  the  fish. 


W<AYS    fef 


While  we  were  having  soups  so  thin  and  taste 
less  that  they  would  have  made  a  French  house 
wife  blush,  the  ingredients  essential  to  an  ex 
cellent  "stock"  were  cast  aside.  The  boarders 
were  paying  five  dollars  a  day  and  appeared 
contented,  the  place  was  packed,  the  landlord 
coining  money,  so  it  was  foolish  to  expecl:  any 
improvement. 

The  other  hotel,  a  vast  caravansary  in  the 
South,  where  a  fortune  had  been  lavished  in 
providing  every  modern  convenience  and  luxury, 
was  the  "fad"  of  its  wealthy  owner.  I  had  many 
talks  with  the  manager  during  my  stay,  and  came 
to  realize  that  most  of  the  wastefulness  I  saw 
around  me  was  not  his  fault,  but  that  of  the 
public,  to  whose  taste  he  was  obliged  to  cater. 
At  dinner,  after  receiving  your  order,  the  waiter 
would  disappear  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  bring 
your  entire  meal  on  one  tray,  the  over-cooked 
meats  stranded  in  lakes  of  coagulated  gravy,  the 
entrees  cold  and  the  ices  warm.  He  had  gener 
ally  forgotten  two  or  three  essentials,  but  to  send 
back  for  them  meant  to  wait  another  half-hour, 
as  his  other  clients  were  clamoring  to  be  served. 
So  you  ate  what  was  before  you  in  sulky  disgust, 
and  got  out  of  the  room  as  quickly  as  possi 
ble. 

After  one  of  these  gastronomic  races,  being 
hungry,  flustered,  and  suffering  from  indigestion, 
I  asked  mine  host  if  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  to  serve  a  table  d'hote  dinner  (in  courses) 

[  198  ] 


HUS  KS 

as  is  done  abroad,  where  hundreds  of  people  dine 
at  the  same  moment,  each  dish  being  offered  them 
in  turn  accompanied  by  its  accessories. 

"Of  course,  I  have  thought  of  it,"  he  an 
swered.  "It  would  be  the  greatest  improvement 
that  could  be  introduced  into  American  hotel- 
keeping.  No  one  knows  better  than  I  do  how 
disastrous  the  present  system  is  to  all  parties. 
Take  as  an  example  of  the  present  way,  the  din 
ner  I  am  going  to  give  you  to-morrow,  in  honor 
of  Christmas.  Glance  over  this  menu.  You  will 
see  that  it  enumerates  every  costly  and  delicate 
article  of  food  possible  to  procure  and  a  long 
list  of  other  dishes,  the  greater  part  of  which 
will  not  even  be  called  for.  As  no  number  of 
chefs  could  possibly  oversee  the  proper  prepa 
ration  of  such  a  variety  of  meats  and  sauces,  all 
will  be  carelessly  cooked,  and  as  you  know  by 
experience,  poorly  served. 

"People  who  exa6t  useless  variety,"  he  added, 
"are  sure  in  some  way  to  be  the  sufferers;  in 
their  anxiety  to  try  every  thing,  they  will  get  noth 
ing  worth  eating.  Yet  that  meal  will  cost  me 
considerably  more  than  my  guests  pay  for  their 
twenty-four  hours'  board  and  lodging. 

"Why  do  it,  you  ask?  Because  it  is  the  cus 
tom,  and  because  it  will  be  an  advertisement. 
These  bills  of  fare  will  be  sown  broadcast  over 
the  country  in  letters  to  friends  and  kept  as  sou 
venirs.  If,  instead  of  all  this  senseless  superfluity, 
I  were  allowed  to  give  a  table  tfhote  meal  to-mor- 

[  199  ] 


row,  with  the  chef  I  have,  I  could  provide  an  ex 
quisite  dinner,  perfect  in  every  detail,  served  at 
little  tables  as  deftly  and  silently  as  in  a  private 
house.  I  could  also  discharge  half  of  my  waiters, 
and  charge  two  dollars  a  day  instead  of  five  dol 
lars,  and  the  hotel  would  become  (what  it  has 
never  been  yet)  a  paying  investment,  so  great 
would  be  the  saving. 

"Only  this  morning,"  he  continued,  warming 
to  his  subject,  "while  standing  in  the  dining- 
room,  I  saw  a  young  man  order  and  then  send 
away  half  the  dishes  on  the  menu.  A  chicken 
was  broiled  for  him  and  rejected;  a  steak  and  an 
omelette  fared  no  better.  How  much  do  you 
suppose  a  hotel  gains  from  a  guest  like  that? 

"The  reason  Americans  put  up  with  such  poor 
viands  in  hotels  is,  that  home  cooking  in  this 
country  is  so  rudimentary,  consisting  principally 
of  fried  dishes,  and  hot  breads.  So  little  is  known 
about  the  proper  preparation  of  food  that  to 
morrow's  dinner  will  appear  to  many  as  the  ne 
-plus  ultra  of  delicate  living.  One  of  the  charms 
of  a  hotel  for  people  who  live  poorly  at  home, 
lies  in  this  power  to  order  expensive  dishes  they 
rarely  or  never  see  on  their  own  tables. 

"To  be  served  with  a  quantity  of  food  that 
he  has  but  little  desire  to  eat  is  one  of  an  Amer 
ican  citizen's  dearest  privileges,  and  a  right  he  will 
most  unwillingly  relinquish.  He  may  know  as 
well  as  you  and  I  do,  that  what  he  calls  for 
will  not  be  worth  eating;  that  is  of  secondary 
[  200  ] 


HUS  KS 

importance,  he  has  it  before  him,  and  is  con 
tented. 

"The  hotel  that  attempted  limiting  the  liberty 
of  its  guests  to  the  extent  of  serving  them  a  table 
d'hote  dinner,  would  be  emptied  in  a  week. 

"A  crowning  incongruity,  as  most  people  are 
delighted  to  dine  with  friends,  or  at  public  func 
tions,  where  the  meal  is  invariably  served  a  la 
russe  (another  name  for  a  table  dhote},  and  on 
these  occasions  are  only  too  glad  to  have  their 
menu  chosen  for  them.  The  present  way,  how 
ever,  is  a  remnant  of  'old  times'  and  the  aver 
age  American,  with  all  his  love  of  change  and 
novelty,  is  very  conservative  when  it  comes  to 
his  table." 

What  this  manager  did  not  confide  to  me, 
but  what  I  discovered  later  for  myself,  was 
that  to  facilitate  the  service,  and  avoid  confu 
sion  in  the  kitchens,  it  had  become  the  custom 
at  all  the  large  and  most  of  the  small  hotels  in 
this  country,  to  carve  the  joints,  cut  up  the  game, 
and  portion  out  vegetables,  an  hour  or  two  before 
meal  time.  The  food,  thus  arranged,  is  placed  in 
vast  steam  closets,  where  it  simmers  gayly  for 
hours,  in  its  own,  and  fifty  other  vapors. 

Any  one  who  knows  the  rudiments  of  cook 
ery,  will  recognize  that  with  this  system  no  viand 
can  have  any  particular  flavor,  the  partridges 
having  a  taste  of  their  neighbor  the  roast  beef, 
which  in  turn  suggests  the  plum  pudding  it  has 
been  "chumming"  with. 


It  is  not  alone  in  a  hotel  that  we  miss  the  good 
in  grasping  after  the  better.  Small  housekeeping 
is  apparently  run  on  the  same  lines. 

A  young  Frenchman,  who  was  working  in 
my  rooms,  told  me  in  reply  to  a  question  regard 
ing  prices,  that  every  kind  of  food  was  cheaper 
here  than  abroad,  but  the  prejudice  against  cer 
tain  dishes  was  so  strong  in  this  country  that 
many  of  the  best  things  in  the  markets  were 
never  called  for.  Our  nation  is  no  longer  in  its 
"teens"  and  should  cease  to  act  like  a  foolish 
boy  who  has  inherited  (what  appears  to  him)  a 
limitless  fortune;  not  for  fear  or  his  coming,  like 
his  prototype  in  the  parable,  to  live  on  "husks" 
for  he  is  doing  that  already,  but  lest  like  the  dog 
of  the  fable,  in  grasping  after  the  shadow  of  a 
banquet  he  miss  the  simple  meal  that  is  within 
his  reach. 

One  of  the  reasons  for  this  deplorable  state 
of  affairs  lies  in  the  foolish  education  our  girls 
receive.  They  learn  so  little  housekeeping  at 
home,  that  when  married  they  are  obliged  to  begin 
all  over  again,  unless  they  prefer,  like  a  majority 
of  their  friends,  to  let  things  go  at  the  will  and 
discretion  of  the  "lady"  below  stairs. 

At  both  hotels  I  have  referred  to,  the  families 
of  the  men  interested  considered  it  beneath  them 
to  know  what  was  taking  place.  The  "daughter" 
of  the  New  England  house  went  semi-weekly 
to  Boston  to  take  violin  lessons  at  ten  dollars 
each,  although  she  had  no  intention  of  becoming 
[  202  ] 


HUS  KS 

a  professional,  while  the  wife  wrote  poetry  and 
ignored  the  hotel  side  of  her  life  entirely. 

The  "better  half"  of  the  Florida  establish 
ment  hired  a  palace  in  Rome  and  entertained 
ambassadors.  Hotels  divided  against  themselves 
are  apt  to  be  establishments  where  you  pay  for 
riotous  living  and  are  served  only  with  husks. 

We  have  many  hard  lessons  ahead  of  us,  and 
one  of  the  hardest  will  be  for  our  nation  to  learn 
humbly  from  the  thrifty  emigrants  on  our  shores, 
the  great  art  of  utilizing  the  "tails"  that  are  at 
this  moment  being  so  recklessly  thrown  away. 

As  it  is,  in  spite  of  markets  overflowing  with 
every  fish,  vegetable,  and  tempting  viand,  we 
continue  to  be  the  worst  fed,  most  meagrely 
nourished  of  all  the  wealthy  nations  on  the  face 
of  the  earth.  We  have  a  saying  (for  an  excellent 
reason  unknown  on  the  Continent)  that  Provi 
dence  provides  us  with  food  and  the  devil  sends 
the  cooks!  It  would  be  truer  to  say  that  the 
poorer  the  food  resources  of  a  nation,  the  more 
restricted  the  choice  of  material,  the  better  the 
cooks;  a  small  latitude  when  providing  for  the 
table  forcing  them  to  a  hundred  clever  combina 
tions  and  mysterious  devices  to  vary  the  monot 
ony  of  their  cuisine  and  tempt  a  palate,  by 
custom  staled. 

Our  heedless   people,  with  great  variety  at 
their  disposition,  are  unequal  to  the  situation, 
wasting  and  discarding  the  best,  and  making  ab 
solutely  nothing  of  their  advantages. 
[  203  ] 


WORLDLY 


If  we  were  enjoying  our  prodigality  by  living 
on  the  fat  of  the  land,  there  would  be  less  rea 
son  to  reproach  ourselves,  for  every  one  has  a 
right  to  live  as  he  pleases.  But  as  it  is,  our  fool 
ish  prodigals  are  spending  their  substance,  while 
eating  the  husks! 


[  204  ] 


N°-  30 

The  Faubourg  St.  Germain 

THERE  has  been  too  much  said  and 
written  in  the  last  dozen  years  about 
breaking  down  the  "great  wall"  behind 
which  the  aristocrats  of  the  famous  Faubourg, 
like  the  Celestials,  their  prototypes,  have  en 
sconced  themselves.  The  Chinese  speak  of  out 
siders  as  "barbarians."  The  French  ladies  refer 
to  such  unfortunates  as  being"  beyond  the  pale." 
Almost  all  that  has  been  written  is  arrant  non 
sense;  that  imaginary  barrier  exists  to-day  on  as 
firm  a  foundation,  and  is  guarded  by  sentinels  as 
vigilant  as  when,  forty  years  ago,  Napoleon 
(third  of  the  name)  and  his  Spanish  spouse 
mounted  to  its  assault. 

Their  repulse  was  a  bitter  humiliation  to  the 
parvenue  Empress,  whose  resentment  took  the 
form  (along  with  many  other  curious  results)  of 
opening  the  present  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  its 
line  being  intentionally  carried  through  the 
heart  of  that  quarter,  teeming  with  historic 
"  Hotels"  of  the  old  aristocracy,  where  beautiful 
constructions  were  mercilessly  torn  down  to 
make  way  for  the  new  avenue.  The  cajoleries 
which  Eugenie  first  tried  and  the  blows  that 
followed  were  alike  unavailing.  Even  her  wor 
ship  of  Marie  Antoinette,  between  whom  and 
herself  she  found  imaginary  resemblances,  failed 


fcf 


to  warm  the  stony  hearts  of  the  proud  old  ladies, 
to  whom  it  was  as  gall  and  wormwood  to  see  a 
nobody  crowned  in  the  palace  of  their  kings. 
Like  religious  communities,  persecution  only 
drew  this  old  society  more  firmly  together  and 
made  them  stand  by  each  other  in  their  distress. 
When  the  Bois  was  remodelled  by  Napoleon 
and  the  lake  with  its  winding  drive  laid  out,  the 
new  Court  drove  of  an  afternoon  along  this 
water  front.  That  was  enough  for  the  old  swells  ! 
They  retired  to  the  remote  "Alice  of  the  Aca 
cias,"  and  solemnly  took  their  airing  away  from 
the  bustle  of  the  new  world,  incidentally  set 
ting  a  fashion  that  has  held  good  to  this  day;  the 
lakeside  being  now  deserted,  and  the  "Acacias" 
crowded  of  an  afternoon,  by  all  that  Paris  holds 
of  elegant  and  inelegant. 

Where  the  brilliant  Second  Empire  failed,  the 
Republic  had  little  chance  of  success.  With  each 
succeeding  year  the  "Old  Faubourg"  withdrew 
more  and  more  into  its  shell,  going  so  far,  after 
the  fall  of  MacMahon,  as  to  change  its  "  season  " 
to  the  spring,  so  that  the  balls  and  fetes  it  gave 
should  not  coincide  with  the  "  official  "  enter 
tainments  during  the  winter. 

The  next  people  to  have  a  "shy"  at  the  "Old 
Faubourg's"  Gothic  battlements  were  the  Jews, 
who  were  victorious  in  a  few  light  skirmishes 
and  succeeded  in  capturing  one  or  two  illustri 
ous  husbands  for  their  daughters.  The  wily 
Israelites,  however,  discovered  that  titled  sons- 
[  206  ] 


THE    F^tUBOURQ    ST. 


in-law  were  expensive  articles  and  often  turned 
out  unsatisfactorily,  so  they  quickly  desisted.  The 
English,  the  most  practical  of  societies,  have  al 
ways  left  the  Faubourg  alone.  It  has  been  re 
served  for  our  countrywomen  to  lay  the  most 
determined  siege  yet  recorded  to  that  untaken 
stronghold. 

It  is  a  characteristic  of  the  American  temper 
ament  to  be  unable  to  see  a  closed  door  without 
developing  an  intense  curiosity  to  know  what  is 
behind;  or  to  read  "No  Admittance  to  the  Pub 
lic"  over  an  entrance  without  immediately  de 
termining  to  get  inside  at  any  price.  So  it  is  easy 
to  understand  the  attraction  an  hermetically 
sealed  society  would  have  for  our  fair  compa 
triots.  Year  after  year  they  have  flung  themselves 
against  its  closed  gateways.  Repulsed,  they  have 
retired  only  to  form  again  for  the  attack,  but 
are  as  far  away  to-day  from  planting  their  flag 
in  that  citadel  as  when  they  first  began.  It  does 
not  matter  to  them  what  is  inside;  there  may  be 
(as  in  this  case)  only  mouldy  old  halls  and  a 
group  of  people  with  antiquated  ideas  and  ways. 
It  is  enough  for  a  certain  type  of  woman  to 
know  that  she  is  not  wanted  in  an  exclusive 
circle,  to  be  ready  to  die  in  the  attempt  to  get 
there.  This  point  of  view  reminds  one  of  Mrs. 
Snob's  saying  about  a  new  arrival  at  a  hotel  :  "  I 
am  sure  she  must  be  c  somebody  '  for  she  was  so 
rude  to  me  when  I  spoke  to  her;"  and  her  an 
swer  to  her  daughter  when  the  girl  said  (on  arriv- 
[  207  ] 


WrfYS    & 


ing  at  a  watering-place)  that  she  had  noticed  a 
very  nice  family  "who  look  as  if  they  wanted  to 
know  us,  Mamma:" 

"Then,  my  dear,"  replied  Mamma  Snob, 
"  they  certainly  are  not  people  we  want  to  meet  !  " 

The  men  in  French  society  are  willing  enough 
to  make  acquaintance  with  foreigners.  You  may 
see  the  youth  of  the  Faubourg  dancing  at  Ameri 
can  balls  in  Paris,  or  running  over  for  occasional 
visits  to  this  country.  But  when  it  comes  to  taking 
their  women-kind  with  them,  it  is  a  different 
matter.  Americans  who  have  known  well-born 
Frenchmen  at  school  or  college  are  surprised, 
on  meeting  them  later,  to  be  asked  (cordially 
enough)  to  dine  en  gar  f  on  at  a  restaurant,  although 
their  Parisian  friend  is  married.  An  Englishman's 
or  American's  first  word  would  be  on  a  like  oc 
casion  : 

"Come  and  dine  with  me  to-night.  I  want 
to  introduce  you  to  my  wife."  Such  an  idea 
would  never  cross  a  Frenchman's  mind! 

One  American  I  know  is  a  striking  example 
of  this.  He  was  born  in  Paris,  went  to  school 
and  college  there,  and  has  lived  in  that  city  all  his 
life.  His  sister  married  a  French  nobleman.  Yet 
at  this  moment,  in  spite  of  his  wealth,  his  charm 
ing  American  wife,  and  many  beautiful  entertain 
ments,  he  has  not  one  warm  French  friend,  or 
the  entree  on  a  footing  of  intimacy  to  a  single 
Gallic  house. 

There  is  no  analogy  between  the  English  aris- 
[  208  ] 


THE    F^UBOURg    ST. 


tocracy  and  the  French  nobility,  except  that  they 
are  both  antiquated  institutions;  the  English  is 
the  more  harmful  on  account  of  its  legislative 
power,  the  French  is  the  more  pretentious.  The 
House  of  Lords  is  the  most  open  club  in  Lon 
don,  the  payment  of  an  entrance-fee  in  the  shape 
of  a  check  to  a  party  fund  being  an  all-sufficient 
sesame.  In  France,  one  must  be  born  in  the 
magic  circle.  The  spirit  of  the  Emigration  of 
1793  is  not  yet  extinct.  The  nobles  live  in  their 
own  world  (how  expressive  the  word  is,  seeming 
to  exclude  all  the  rest  of  mankind),  pining  after 
an  impossible  restauration,  alien  to  the  present 
day,  holding  aloof  from  politics  for  fear  of  com 
ing  in  touch  with  the  masses,  with  whom  they 
pride  themselves  on  having  nothing  in  common. 

What  leads  many  people  astray  on  this  sub 
ject  is  that  there  has  formed  around  this  ancient 
society  a  circle  composed  of  rich  "outsiders,"  who 
have  married  into  good  families;  and  of  eccentric 
members  of  the  latter,  who  from  a  love  of  excite 
ment  or  for  interested  motives  have  broken  away 
from  their  traditions.  Newly  arrived  Americans 
are  apt  to  mistake  this  "world"  for  the  real  thing. 
Into  this  circle  it  is  not  difficult  for  foreigners  who 
are  rich  and  anxious  to  see  something  of  life  to 
gain  admission.  To  be  received  by  the  ladies  of 
this  outer  circle,  seems  to  our  compatriots  to  be 
an  achievement,  until  they  learn  the  real  stand 
ing  of  their  new  acquaintances. 

No  gayer  houses,  however,  exist  than  those  of 
[  209  ] 


the  new  set.  At  their  city  or  country  houses,  they 
entertain  continually, and  they  are  the  people  one 
meets  toward  five  o'clock,  on  the  grounds  of  the 
Polo  Club,  in  the  Bois,at/£#j  given  by  the  Island 
Club  of  Puteaux,  attending  the  race  meetings,  or 
dining  at  American  houses.  As  far  as  amusement 
and  fun  go,  one  might  seek  much  further  and  fare 
worse. 

It  is  very,  very  rare  that  foreigners  get  beyond 
this  circle.  Occasionally  there  is  a  marriage  be 
tween  an  American  girl  and  some  Frenchman  of 
high  rank.  In  these  cases  the  girl  is,  as  it  were, 
swallowed  up.  Her  family  see  little  of  her,  she 
rarely  appears  in  general  society,  and,  little  by 
little,  she  is  lost  to  her  old  friends  and  relations. 
I  know  of  several  cases  of  this  kind  where  it  is 
to  be  doubted  if  a  dozen  Americans  outside  of  the 
girls'  connections  know  that  such  women  exist. 
The  fall  in  rents  and  land  values  has  made  the 
French  aristocracy  poor;  it  is  only  by  the  great 
est  economy  (and  it  never  entered  into  an  Ameri 
can  mind  to  conceive  of  such  economy  as  is 
practised  among  them)  that  they  succeed  in  hold- 
ingon  to  their  historical  chateauxor  beautiful  city 
residences;  so  that  pride  plays  a  large  part  in  the 
isolation  in  which  they  live. 

The  fact  that  no  titles  are  recognized  officially 
by  the  French  government  (the  most  they  can 
obtain  being  a  "  courtesy  "  recognition)  has  placed 
these  people  in  a  singularly  false  position.  An 
American  girl  who  has  married  a  Duke  is  a 


THE    F^UBOURq    ST. 


good  deal  astonished  to  find  that  she  is  legally 
only  plain  "Madame  So  and  So;"  that  when 
her  husband  does  his  military  service  there  is  no 
trace  of  the  high-sounding  title  to  be  found  in 
his  official  papers.  Some  years  ago,  a  colonel  was 
rebuked  because  he  allowed  the  Due  d'Alen^on 
to  be  addressed  as  "Monseigneur"  by  the  other 
officers  of  his  regiment.  This  ought  to  make  am 
bitious  papas  reflect,  when  they  treat  themselves 
to  titled  sons-in-law.  They  should  at  least  try 
and  get  an  article  recognized  by  the  law. 

Most  of  what  is  written  here  is  perfectly  well 
known  to  resident  Americans  in  Paris,  and  has 
been  the  cause  of  gradually  splitting  that  once 
harmonious  settlement  into  two  perfectly  distinct 
camps,  between  which  no  love  is  lost.  The  mem 
bers  of  one,  clinging  to  their  countrymen's  creed 
of  having  the  best  or  nothing,  have  been  con 
tented  to  live  in  France  and  know  but  few 
French  people,  entertaining  among  themselves 
and  marrying  their  daughters  to  Americans.  The 
members  of  the  other,  who  have  "gone  in"  for 
French  society,  take  what  they  can  get,  and,  on 
the  whole,  lead  very  jolly  lives.  It  often  happens 
(perhaps  it  is  only  a  coincidence)  that  ladies  who 
have  not  been  very  successful  at  home  are  partial 
to  this  circle,  where  they  easily  find  guests  for 
their  entertainments  and  the  recognition  their 
souls  long  for. 

What  the  future  of  the  "Great  Faubourg" 
will  be,  it  is  hard  to  say.  All  hope  of  a  possible 
[an  ] 


<BTW<AYS 


restauration  appears  to  be  lost.  Will  the  proud 
necks  that  refused  to  bend  to  the  Orleans  dy 
nasty  or  the  two  "empires"  bow  themselves  to 
the  republican  yoke?  It  would  seem  as  if  it  must 
terminate  in  this  way,  for  everything  in  this  world 
must  finish.  But  the  end  is  not  yet;  one  cannot 
help  feeling  sympathy  for  people  who  are  trying 
to  live  up  to  their  traditions  and  be  true  to  such 
immaterial  idols  as  "honor"  and  "family"  in 
this  discouragingly  material  age,  when  everything 
goes  down  before  the  Golden  Calf.  Nor  does  one 
wonder  that  men  who  can  trace  their  ancestors 
back  to  the  Crusades  should  hesitate  to  ally 
themselves  with  the  last  rich  parvenu  who  has 
raised  himself  from  the  gutter,  or  resent  the  ar 
dor  with  which  the  latest  importation  of  Ameri 
can  ambition  tries  to  chum  with  them  and  push 
its  way  into  their  life. 


N°-  31 

Men's  Manners 


NOTHING  makes  one  feel  so  old  as  to 
wake  up  suddenly,  as  it  were,  and  real 
ize  that  the  conditions  of  life  have 
changed,  and  that  the  standards  you  knew  and 
accepted  in  your  youth  have  been  raised  or  low 
ered.  The  young  men  you  meet  have  somehow 
become  uncomfortably  polite,  offering  you  arm 
chairs  in  the  club,  and  listening  with  a  shade  of 
deference  to  your  stories.  They  are  of  another 
generation;  their  ways  are  not  your  ways,  nor 
their  ambitions  those  you  had  in  younger  days. 
One  is  tempted  to  look  a  little  closer,  to  analyze 
what  the  change  is,  in  what  this  subtle  difference 
consists,  which  you  feel  between  your  past  and 
their  present.  You  are  surprised  and  a  little  angry 
to  discover  that,  among  other  things,  young  men 
have  better  manners  than  were  general  among 
the  youths  of  fifteen  years  ago. 

Anyone  over  forty  can  remember  three  epochs 
in  men's  manners.  When  I  was  a  very  young 
man,  there  were  still  going  about  in  society  a 
number  of  gentlemen  belonging  to  what  was 
reverently  called  the  "old  school,"  who  had  evi 
dently  taken  Sir  Charles  Grandison  as  their  model, 
read  Lord  Chesterfield's  letters  to  his  son  with 
attention,  and  been  brought  up  to  commence  let 
ters  to  their  fathers,  "Honored  Parent,"  signing 


W<AYS    fcf 


themselves"  Your  humble  servant  and  respectful 
son."  There  are  a  few  such  old  gentlemen  still  to 
be  found  in  the  more  conservative  clubs,  where 
certain  windows  are  tacitly  abandoned  to  these 
elegant-mannered  fossils.  They  are  quite  harm 
less  unless  you  happen  to  find  them  in  a  remin 
iscent  mood,  when  they  are  apt  to  be  a  little 
tiresome;  it  takes  their  rusty  mental  machinery 
so  long  to  get  working!  Washington  possesses  a 
particularly  fine  collection  among  the  retired 
army  and  navy  officers  and  ex-officials.  It  is  a 
fact  well  known  that  no  one  drawing  a  pension 
ever  dies. 

About  1875,  a  new  generation  with  new  man 
ners  began  to  make  its  appearance.  A  number 
of  its  members  had  been  educated  at  foreign 
universities,  and  came  home  burning  to  upset 
old  ways  and  teach  their'elders  how  to  live.  They 
broke  away  from  the  old  clubs  and  started  smaller 
and  more  exclusive  circles  among  themselves, 
principally  in  the  country.  This  was  a  period  of 
bad  manners.  True  to  their  transatlantic  model, 
they  considered  it  "good  form"  to  be  uncivil  and 
to  make  no  effort  towards  the  general  entertain 
ment  when  in  society.  Not  to  speak  more  than 
a  word  or  two  during  a  dinner  party  to  either 
of  one's  neighbors  was  the  supreme  chic.  As  a 
revolt  from  the  twice-told  tales  of  their  elders 
they  held  it  to  be  "bad  form"  to  tell  a  story, 
no  matter  how  fresh  and  amusing  it  might  be. 
An  unfortunate  outsider  who  ventured  to  tell 


MEN'S    MANNERS 


one  in  their  club  was  crushed  by  having  his  tale 
received  in  dead  silence.  When  it  was  finished 
one  of  the  party  would  "ring  the  bell,"  and  the 
circle  order  drinks  at  the  expense  of  the  man 
who  had  dared  to  amuse  them.  How  the  pro 
fessional  story-teller  must  have  shuddered — he 
whose  story  never  was  ripe  until  it  had  been 
told  a  couple  of  hundred  times,  and  who  would 
produce  a  certain  tale  at  a  certain  course  as 
surely  as  clock-work. 

That  the  story-telling  type  was  a  bore,  I 
grant.  To  be  grabbed  on  entering  your  club  and 
obliged  to  listen  to  Smith's  last,  or  to  have  the 
conversation  after  dinner  monopolized  by  Jones 
and  his  eternal  "  Speaking  of  coffee,  I  remember 
once,"  etc.,  added  an  additional  hardship  to  ex 
istence.  But  the  opposite  pose,  which  became  the 
fashion  among  the  reformers,  was  hardly  less 
wearisome.  To  sit  among  a  group  of  perfectly 
mute  men,  with  an  occasional  word  dropping 
into  the  silence  like  a  stone  in  a  well,  was  surely 
little  better. 

A  girl  told  me  she  had  once  sat  through  an 
entire  cotillion  with  a  youth  whose  only  remark 
during  the  evening  had  been  (after  absorbed 
contemplation  of  the  articles  in  question),  "How 
do  you  like  my  socks?" 

On  another  occasion  my  neighbor  at  table  said 
to  me: 

"I  think  the  man  on  my  right  has  gone  to 
sleep.  He  is  sitting  with  his  eyes  closed!"  She 

[MS] 


was  mistaken.  He  was  practising  his  newly  ac 
quired  "repose  of  manner,"  and  living  up  to  the 
standard  of  his  set. 

The  model  young  man  of  that  period  had  an 
other  offensive  habit,  his  pose  of  never  seeing 
you,  which  got  on  the  nerves  of  his  elders  to  a 
considerable  extent.  If  he  came  into  a  drawing- 
room  where  you  were  sitting  with  a  lady,  he 
would  shake  hands  with  her  and  begin  a  con 
versation,  ignoring  your  existence,  although 
you  may  have  been  his  guest  at  dinner  the  night 
before,  or  he  yours.  This  was  also  a  tenet  of  his 
creed  borrowed  from  trans-Atlantic  cousins, 
who,  by  the  bye,  during  the  time  I  speak  of, 
found  America,  and  especially  our  Eastern 
states,  a  happy  hunting-ground, — all  the  clubs, 
country  houses,  and  society  generally  opening 
their  doors  to  the  "sesame"  of  English  nation 
ality.  It  took  our  innocent  youths  a  good  ten 
years  to  discover  that  there  was  little  reciprocity 
m  the  arrangement;  it  was  only  in  the  next 
epoch  (the  last  of  the  three  referred  to)  that  our 
men  recovered  their  self-respeft,  and  assumed 
towards  foreigners  in  general  the  attitude  of  po 
lite  indifference  which  is  their  manner  to  us  when 
abroad.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  provin 
cial  and  narrow  than  the  ideas  of  our  "smart" 
men  at  that  time.  They  congregated  in  little 
cliques,  huddling  together  in  public,  and  crack 
ing  personal  old  jokes;  but  were  speechless  with 
mauvaise  honte  if  thrown  among  foreigners  or  into 

[416] 


MEN'S    MANNERS 


other  circles  of  society.  All  this  is  not  to  be  won 
dered  at  considering  the  amount  of  their  general 
education  and  reading.  One  charming  little  cus 
tom  then  greatly  in  vogue  among  our  jeunesse 
doreewas  to  remain  at  a  ball,  after  the  other  guests 
had  retired,  get  tipsy,  and  then  break  anything 
that  came  to  hand.  It  was  so  amusing  to  throw 
china,  glass,  or  valuable  plants,  out  of  the  win 
dows,  to  strip  to  the  waist  and  box  or  bait  the 
tired  waiters. 

I  look  at  the  boys  growing  up  around  me  with 
sincere  admiration,  they  are  so  superior  to  their 
predecessors  in  breeding,  in  civility,  in  deference 
to  older  people,  and  in  a  thousand  other  little 
ways  that  mark  high-bred  men.  The  stray  Eng 
lishman,  of  no  particular  standing  at  home  no 
longer  finds  our  men  eager  to  entertain  him,  to 
put  their  best  "hunter"  at  his  disposition,  to 
board,  lodge,  and  feed  him  indefinitely,  or  make 
him  honorary  member  of  all  their  clubs.  It  is  a 
constant  source  of  pleasure  to  me  to  watch  this 
younger  generation,  so  plainly  do  I  see  in  them 
the  influence  of  their  mothers — women  I  knew 
as  girls,  and  who  were  so  far  ahead  of  their  bro 
thers  and  husbands  in  refinement  and  culture. 
To  have  seen  these  girls  marry  and  bring  up 
their  sons  so  well  has  been  a  satisfaction  and  a 
compensation  for  many  disillusions.  Woman's 
influence  will  always  remain  the  strongest  lever 
that  can  be  brought  to  bear  in  raising  the  tone 
of  a  family;  it  is  impossible  not  to  see  about 


<BYW<AYS 


these  young  men  a  reflection  of  what  we  found 
so  charming  in  their  mothers.  One  despairs  at 
times  of  humanity,  seeing  vulgarity  and  snob 
bishness  riding  triumphantly  upward;  but  where 
the  tone  of  the  younger  generation  is  as  high  as 
I  have  lately  found  it,  there  is  still  much  hope 
for  the  future. 


An  Ideal  Hostess 


THE  saying  that  "One-half  of  the  world 
ignores  how  the  other  half  lives"  re 
ceived  for  me  an  additional  confirma 
tion  this  last  week,  when  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  meet  again  an  old  friend,  now  for  some  years 
retired  from  the  stage,  where  she  had  by  her 
charm  and  beauty,  as  well  as  by  her  singing,  held 
all  the  Parisian  world  at  her  pretty  feet. 

Our  meeting  was  followed  on  her  part  by  an 
invitation  to  take  luncheon  with  her  the  next 
day,  "to  meet  a  few  friends,  and  talk  over  old 
times."  So  half-past  twelve  (the  invariable  hour 
for  the  "second  breakfast,"  in  France)  the  fol 
lowing  day  found  me  entering  a  shady  drawing- 
room,  where  a  few  people  were  sitting  in  the 
cool  half-light  that  strayed  across  from  a  canvas- 
covered  balcony  furnished  with  plants  and  low 
chairs.  Beyond  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  perhaps 
the  gayest  picture  that  the  bright  city  of  Paris 
offers, — the  sweep  of  the  Boulevard  as  it  turns 
to  the  Rue  Royale,  the  flower  market,  gay  with 
a  thousand  colors  in  the  summer  sunshine,  while 
above  all  the  color  and  movement,  rose,  cool 
and  gray,  the  splendid  colonnade  of  the  Mad 
eleine.  The  rattle  of  carriages,  the  roll  of  the 
heavy  omnibuses  and  the  shrill  cries  from  the 
street  below  floated  up,  softened  into  a  harmoni- 

[  2I9  ] 


WdYS    tf 


ous  murmur  that  in  no  way  interfered  with  our 
conversation,  and  is  sweeter  than  the  finest  music 
to  those  who  love  their  Paris. 

Five  or  six  rooms  £#j#//i?  opening  on  the  street, 
and  as  many  more  on  a  large  court,  formed  the 
apartment,  where  everything  betrayed  the  artiste 
and  the  singer.  The  walls,  hung  with  silk  or  tap 
estry,  held  a  collection  of  original  drawings  and 
paintings,  a  fortune  in  themselves;  the  dozen 
portraits  of  our  hostess  in  favorite  roles  were  by 
men  great  in  the  art  world;  a  couple  of  pianos 
covered  with  well-worn  music  and  numberless 
photographs  signed  with  names  that  would  have 
made  an  autograph-fiend's  mouth  water. 

After  a  gracious,  cooing  welcome,  more  whis 
pered  than  spoken,  I  was  presented  to  the  guests 
I  did  not  know.  Before  this  ceremony  was  well 
over,  two  maids  in  black,  with  white  caps,  opened 
a  door  into  the  dining-room  and  announced 
luncheon.  As  this  is  written  on  the  theme  that 
"people  know  too  little  how  their  neighbors  live," 
I  give  the  menu.  It  may  amuse  my  readers  and 
serve,  perhaps,  as  a  little  object  lesson  to  those 
at  home  who  imagine  that  quantity  and  not 
quality  is  of  importance. 

Our  gracious  hostess  had  earned  a  fortune  in 
her  profession  (and  I  am  told  that  two  chefs 
preside  over  her  simple  meals)  ;  so  it  was  not  a 
spirit  of  economy  which  dictated  this  simplicity. 
At  first,  hors  d"1  ceumes  were  served,  —  all  sorts  of 
tempting  little  things,  —  very  thin  slices  of  ham, 
[  220  ] 


IDE^L    HOSTESS 


spiced  sausages,  olives  and  caviar,  and  eaten  — 
not  merely  passed  and  refused.  Then  came  the 
one  hot  dish  of  the  meal.  "One!"  I  think  I  hear 
my  reader  exclaim.  Yes,  my  friend,  but  that  one 
was  a  marvel  in  its  way.  Chicken  a  I'espagnole, 
boiled,  and  buried  in  rice  and  tomatoes  cooked 
whole  —  a  dish  to  be  dreamed  of  and  remembered 
in  one's  prayers  and  thanksgivings!  After  at 
least  two  helpings  each  to  this  chef-d'oeuvre^  cold 
larded  fillet  and  a  meat  pa  te  were  served  with  the 
salad.  Then  a  bit  of  cheese,  a  beaten  cream  of 
chocolate,  fruit,  and  bon-bons.  For  a  drink  we 
had  the  white  wine  from  which  champagne  is 
made  (by  a  chemical  process  and  the  addition 
of  many  injurious  ingredients)  ;  in  other  words, 
a  pure  brut  champagne  with  just  a  suggestion 
of  sparkle  at  the  bottom  of  your  glass.  All  the 
party  then  migrated  together  into  the  smoking- 
room  for  cigarettes,  coffee,  and  a  tiny  glass  of 
liqueur. 

These  details  have  been  given  at  length,  not 
only  because  the  meal  seemed  to  me,  while  I 
was  eating  it,  to  be  worthy  of  whole  columns  of 
print,  but  because  one  of  the  besetting  sins  of 
our  dear  land  is  to  serve  a  profusion  of  food  no 
one  wants  and  which  the  hostess  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  ordering  had  she  been  alone. 

Nothing  is  more  wearisome  than  to  sit  at  table 
and  see  course  after  course,  good,  bad,  and  in 
different,  served,  after  you  have  eaten  what  you 
want.  And  nothing  is  more  vulgar  than  to  serve 


them;  for  either  a  guest  refuses  a  great  deal  of 
the  food  and  appears  uncivil,  or  he  must  eat, 
and  regret  it  afterwards.  If  we  ask  people  to  a 
meal,  it  should  be  to  such  as  we  eat,  as  a  general 
thing,  ourselves,  and  such  as  they  would  have 
at  home.  Otherwise  it  becomes  ostentation  and 
vulgarity.  Why  should  one  be  expected  to  eat 
more  than  usual  because  a  friend  has  been  nice 
enough  to  ask  one  to  take  one's  dinner  with 
him,  instead  of  eating  it  alone?  It  is  the  being 
among  friends  that  tempts,  not  the  food;  the 
fact  that  skilful  waiters  have  been  able  to  serve 
a  dozen  varieties  of  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl  during 
the  time  you  were  at  table  has  added  little  to 
any  one's  pleasure.  On  the  contrary!  Half  the 
time  one  eats  from  pure  absence  of  mind,  a  num 
ber  of  most  injurious  mixtures  and  so  prepares 
.  an  awful  to-morrow  and  the  foundation  of  many 
complicated  diseases. 

I  see  Smith  and  Jones  daily  at  the  club,  where 
we  dine  cheerfully  together  on  soup,  a  cut  of 
the  joint,  a  dessert,  and  drink  a  pint  of  claret. 
But  if  either  Mrs.  Smith  or  Mrs.  Jones  asks  me 
to  dinner,  we  have  eight  courses  and  half  as 
many  wines,  and  Smith  will  say  quite  gravely 
to  me,  "Try  this  '75  'Perrier  Jouet,'"  as  if  he 
were  in  the  habit  of  drinking  it  daily.  It  makes 
me  smile,  for  he  would  as  soon  think  of  ordering 
a  bottle  of  that  wine  at  the  club  as  he  would 
think  of  ordering  a  flask  of  nectar. 

But  to  return  to  our  "mutton."  As  we  had 
[  222  ] 


IDEdL    HOSTESS 


none  of  us  eaten  too  much  (and  so  become  di 
gesting  machines),  we  were  cheerful  and  sprightly. 
A  little  music  followed  and  an  author  repeated 
some  of  his  poetry.  I  noticed  that  during  the 
hour  before  we  broke  up  our  hostess  contrived 
to  have  a  little  talk  with  each  of  her  guests, 
which  she  made  quite  personal,  appearing  for  the 
moment  as  though  the  rest  of  the  world  did  not 
exist  for  her,  than  which  there  is  no  more  subtle 
flattery,  and  which  is  the  act  of  a  well-bred  and 
appreciative  woman.  Guests  cannot  be  treated 
en  masse  any  more  than  food;  to  ask  a  man  to 
your  house  is  not  enough.  He  should  be  made 
to  feel,  if  you  wish  him  to  go  away  with  a  pleas 
ant  remembrance  of  the  entertainment,  that  his 
presence  has  in  some  way  added  to  it  and  been 
a  personal  pleasure  to  his  host. 

A  good  soul  that  all  New  York  knew  a  few 
years  ago,  whose  entertainments  were  as  though 
the  street  had  been  turned  into  a  salon  for  the 
moment,  used  to  go  about  among  her  guests 
saying,  "There  have  been  one  hundred  and 
seventy-five  people  here  this  Thursday,  ten 
more  than  last  week,"  with  such  a  satisfied  smile, 
that  you  felt  that  she  had  little  left  to  wish  for, 
and  found  yourself  wondering  just  which  number 
you  represented  in  her  mind.  When  you  entered 
she  must  have  murmured  a  numeral  to  herself 
as  she  shook  your  hand. 

There  is  more  than  one  house  in  New  York 
where  I  have  grave  doubts  if  the  host  and  host- 
[  223  ] 


ess  are  quite  sure  of  my  name  when  I  dine  there; 
after  an  abstracted  welcome,  they  rarely  put  them 
selves  out  to  entertain  their  guests.  Black  coats 
and  evening  dresses  alternate  in  pleasing  per 
spective  down  the  long  line  of  their  table.  Their 
gold  plate  is  out,  and  the  chef  has  been  allowed 
to  work  his  own  sweet  will,  so  they  give  them 
selves  no  further  trouble. 

Why  does  not  some  one  suggest  to  these 
amphitrions  to  send  fifteen  dollars  in  prettily 
monogrammed  envelopes  to  each  of  theirfriends, 
requesting  them  to  expend  it  on  a  dinner.  The 
compliment  would  be  quite  as  personal,  and 
then  the  guests  might  make  up  little  parties  to 
suit  themselves,  which  would  be  much  more 
satisfactory  than  going  "in"  with  some  one 
chosen  at  hazard  from  their  host's  visiting  list, 
and  less  fatiguing  to  that  gentleman  and  his 
family. 


No.     ^ 

The  Introducer 


WE  all  suffer  more  or  less  from  the 
perennial  "freshness"  of  certain  ac 
quaintances —  tiresome  people  whom 
a  misguided  Providence  has  endowed  with  over 
flowing  vitality  and  an  irrepressible  love  of  their 
fellowmen,  and  who,  not  content  with  looking 
on  life  as  a  continual  "spree,"  insist  on  making 
others  happy  in  spite  of  themselves.  Their  name 
is  legion  and  their  presence  ubiquitous,  but  they 
rarely  annoy  as  much  as  when  disguised  under 
the  mask  of  the  "Introducer."  In  his  clutches 
one  is  helpless.  It  is  impossible  to  escape  from 
such  philanthropic  tyranny.  He,  in  his  freshness, 
imagines  that  to  present  human  beings  to  each 
other  is  his  mission  in  this  world  and  moves 
through  life  making  these  platonic  unions,  oblivi 
ous,  as  are  other  match-makers,  of  the  misery  he 
creates. 

If  you  are  out  for  a  quiet  stroll,  one  of  these 
genial  gentlemen  is  sure  to  come  bounding  up, 
and  without  notice  or  warning  present  you  to 
his  "friend," — the  greater  part  of  the  time  a  man 
he  has  met  only  an  hour  before,  but  whom  he 
endows  out  of  the  warehouse  of  his  generous 
imagination  with  several  talents  and  all  the  vir 
tues.  In  order  to  make  the  situation  just  one 


shade  more  uncomfortable,  this  kindly  bore  pro 
ceeds  to  sing  a  hymn  of  praise  concerning  both 
of  you  to  your  faces,  adding,  in  order  that  you 
may  both  feel  quite  friendly  and  pleasant: 

"  I  know  you  two  will  fancy  each  other,  you 
are  so  alike," — a  phrase  neatly  calculated  to  nip 
any  conversation  in  the  bud.  You  detest  the 
unoffending  stranger  on  the  spot  and  would 
like  to  kill  the  bore.  Not  to  appear  an  absolute 
brute  you  struggle  through  some  commonplace 
phrases,  discovering  the  while  that  your  new 
acquaintance  is  no  more  anxious  to  know  you, 
than  you  are  to  meet  him;  that  he  has  not  the 
slightest  idea  who  you  are,  neither  does  he  de 
sire  to  find  out.  He  classes  you  with  the  bore, 
and  his  one  idea,  like  your  own,  is  to  escape. 
So  that  the  only  result  of  the  Introducer's  good- 
natured  interference  has  been  to  make  two  fel 
low-creatures  miserable. 

A  friend  was  telling  me  the  other  day  of  the 
martyrdom  he  had  suffered  from  this  class.  He 
spoke  with  much  feeling,  as  he  is  the  soul  of 
amiability,  but  somewhat  short-sighted  and  af 
flicted  with  a  hopelessly  bad  memory  for  faces. 
For  the  last  few  years,  he  has  been  in  the  habit 
of  spending  one  or  two  of  the  winter  months  in 
Washington,  where  his  friends  put  him  up  at 
one  club  or  another.  Each  winter  on  his  first 
appearance  at  one  of  these  clubs,  some  kindly 
disposed  old  fogy  is  sure  to  present  him  to  a 
circle  of  the  members,  and  he  finds  himself  in- 
[  226  ] 


THE    INTRODUCED 


discriminately  shaking  hands  with  Judges  and 
Colonels.  As  little  or  no  conversation  follows 
these  introductions  to  fix  the  individuality  of 
the  members  in  his  mind,  he  unconsciously  cuts 
two-thirds  of  his  newly  acquired  circle  the  next 
afternoon,  and  the  following  winter,  after  a  ten- 
months'  absence,  he  innocently  ignores  the  other 
third.  So  hopelessly  has  he  offended  in  this  way, 
that  last  season,  on  being  presented  to  a  club 
member,  the  latter  peevishly  blurted  out: 

"This  is  the  fourth  time  I  have  been  intro 
duced  to  Mr.  Blank,  but  he  never  remembers 
me,"  and  glared  coldly  at  him,  laying  it  all  down 
to  my  friend's  snobbishness  and  to  the  airs  of  a 
New  Yorker  when  away  from  home.  If  instead 
of  being  sacrificed  to  the  introducer's  mistaken 
zeal  my  poor  friend  had  been  left  quietly  to  him 
self,  he  would  in  good  time  have  met  the  people 
congenial  to  him  and  avoided  giving  offence  to 
a  number  of  kindly  gentlemen. 

This  introducing  mania  takes  an  even  more 
aggressive  form  in  the  hostess,  who  imagines 
that  she  is  lacking  in  hospitality  if  any  two  peo 
ple  in  her  drawing-room  are  not  made  known  to 
each  other.  No  matter  how  interested  you  may 
be  in  a  chat  with  a  friend,  you  will  see  her  bear 
ing  down  upon  you,  bringing  in  tow  the  one 
human  being  you  have  carefully  avoided  for 
years.  Escape  seems  impossible,  but  as  a  forlorn 
hope  you  fling  yourself  into  conversation  with 
your  nearest  neighbor,  trying  by  your  absorbed 
[  227  ] 


manner  to  ward  off  the  calamity.  In  vain!  With 
a  tap  on  your  elbow  your  smiling  hostess  intro 
duces  you  and,  having  spoiled  your  afternoon, 
flits  off  in  search  of  other  prey. 

The  question  of  introductions  is  one  on  which 
it  is  impossible  to  lay  down  any  fixed  rules.  There 
must  constantly  occur  situations  where  one's  acts 
must  depend  upon  a  kindly  consideration  for 
other  people's  feelings,  which  after  all,  is  only 
another  name  for  tact.  Nothing  so  plainly  shows 
the  breeding  of  a  man  or  woman  as  skill  in  solv 
ing  problems  of  this  kind  without  giving  offence. 

Foreigners,  with  their  greater  knowledge  of 
the  world,  rarely  fall  into  the  error  of  indiscrimi 
nate  introducing,  appreciating  what  a  presenta 
tion  means  and  what  obligations  it  entails.  The 
English  fall  into  exactly  the  contrary  error  from 
ours,  and  carry  it  to  absurd  lengths.  Starting 
with  the  assumption  that  everybody  knows 
everybody,  and  being  aware  of  the  general 
dread  of  meeting  "detrimentals,"  they  avoid 
the  difficulty  by  making  no  introductions.  This 
may  work  well  among  themselves,  but  it  is  trying 
to  a  stranger  whom  they  have  been  good  enough 
to  ask  to  their  tables,  to  sit  out  the  meal  between 
two  people  who  ignore  his  presence  and  con 
verse  across  him;  for  an  Englishman  will  expire 
sooner  than  speak  to  a  person  to  whom  he  has 
not  been  introduced. 

The  French,  with  the  marvellous  tact  that 
has  for  centuries  made  them  the  law-givers  on 

[    "8    ] 


THE    INTRODUCED 


all  subjects  of  etiquette  and  breeding,  have  an 
other  way  of  avoiding  useless  introductions.  They 
assume  that  two  people  meeting  in  a  drawing- 
room  belong  to  the  same  world  and  so  chat 
pleasantly  with  those  around  them.  On  leaving 
the  salon  the  acquaintance  is  supposed  to  end, 
and  a  gentleman  who  should  at  another  time  or 
place  bow  or  speak  to  the  lady  who  had  offered 
him  a  cup  of  tea  and  talked  pleasantly  to  him 
over  it  at  a  friend's  reception,  would  commit  a 
gross  breach  of  etiquette. 

I  was  once  present  at  a  large  dinner  given  in 
Cologne  to  the  American  Geographical  Society. 
No  sooner  was  I  seated  than  my  two  neighbors 
turned  towards  me  mentioning  their  names  and 
waiting  for  me  to  do  the  same.  After  that  the 
conversation  flowed  on  as  among  friends.  This 
custom  struck  me  as  exceedingly  well-bred  and 
calculated  to  make  a  foreigner  feel  at  his  ease. 

Among  other  curious  types,  there  are  people 
so  constituted  that  they  are  unhappy  if  a  single 
person  can  be  found  in  the  room  to  whom  they 
have  not  been  introduced.  It  does  not  matter 
who  the  stranger  may  be  or  what  chance  there 
is  of  finding  him  congenial.  They  must  be  pre 
sented;  nothing  else  will  content  them.  If  you 
are  chatting  with  a  friend  you  feel  a  pull  at  your 
sleeve,  and  in  an  audible  aside,  they  ask  for  an 
introduction.  The  aspirant  will  then  bring  up 
and  present  the  members  of  his  family  who  hap 
pen  to  be  near.  After  that  he  seems  to  be  at  ease, 
[  229  ] 


csf 


and  having  absolutely  nothing  to  say  will  soon 
drift  off.  Our  public  men  suffer  terribly  from 
promiscuous  introductions;  it  is  a  part  of  a  polit 
ical  career;  a  good  memory  for  names  and  faces 
and  a  cordial  manner  underfire  have  often  gone  a 
long  way  in  floating  a  statesman  on  to  success. 
Demand,  we  are  told,  creates  supply.  During 
a  short  stay  in  a  Florida  hotel  last  winter,  I  no 
ticed  a  curious  little  man  who  looked  like  a  cross 
between  a  waiter  and  a  musician.  As  he  spoke 
to  me  several  times  and  seemed  very  officious, 
I  asked  who  he  was.  The  answer  was  so  grotesque 
that  I  could  not  believe  my  ears.  I  was  told  that 
he  held  the  position  of  official  "introducer,"  or 
master  of  ceremonies,  and  that  the  guests  under 
his  guidance  became  known  to  each  other,  danced, 
rode,  and  married  to  their  own  and  doubtless  to 
his  satisfaction.  The  further  west  one  goes  the 
more  pronounced  this  mania  becomes.  Every 
body  is  introduced  to  everybody  on  all  imagin 
able  occasions.  If  a  man  asks  you  to  take  a 
drink,  he  presents  you  to  the  bar-tender.  If  he 
takes  you  for  a  drive,  the  cab-driver  is  intro 
duced.  "Boots"  makes  you  acquainted  with  the 
chambermaid,  and  the  hotel  proprietor  unites 
you  in  the  bonds  of  friendship  with  the  clerk 
at  the  desk.  Intercourse  with  one's  fellows  be 
comes  one  long  debauch  of  introduction.  In  this 
country  where  every  liberty  is  respected,  it  is  a 
curious  fact  that  we  should  be  denied  the  most 
important  of  all  rights,  that  of  choosing  our  ac 
quaintances.  [  230  ] 


A  Question  and  an  Answer 


DEAR  IDLER: 

I    HAVE  been  reading  your  articles  in  The  Evening 
Post.  They  are  really  most  amusing  !  You  do  know 
such  a  lot  about  people  and  things,  that  I  am  tempted 
to  write  and  ask  you  a  question  on  a  subjett  that  is  puz 
zling  me.  What  is  it  that  is  necessary  to  succeed — socially? 
There!  It  is  out!  Please  do  not  laugh  at  me.  Such  funny 
people  get  on  and  such  clever,  agreeable  ones  fail,  that  lam 
all  at  sea.  Now  do  be  nice  and  answer  me,  and  you  will 
have  a  very  grateful 

ADMIRER. 

The  above  note,  in  a  rather  juvenile  feminine 
hand,  and  breathing  a  faint  perfume  of  violette 
de  Parme,  was  part  of  the  morning's  mail  that  I 
found  lying  on  my  desk  a  few  days  ago,  in  de 
lightful  contrast  to  the  bills  and  advertisements 
which  formed  the  bulk  of  my  correspondence. 
It  would  suppose  a  stoicism  greater  than  I  pos 
sess,  not  to  have  felt  a  thrill  of  satisfaction  in  its 
perusal.  There  was,  then,  some  one  who  read 
with  pleasure  what  I  wrote,  and  who  had  been 
moved  to  consult  me  on  a  question  (evidently 
to  her)  of  importance.  I  instantly  decided  to  do 
my  best  for  the  edification  of  my  fair  correspond 
ent  (for  no  doubt  entered  my  head  that  she  was 
both  young  and  fair),  the  more  readily  because 
that  very  question  had  frequently  presented  itself 
to  my  own  mind  on  observing  the  very  capri- 


cious  choice  of  Dame  "Fashion"  in  the  distri 
bution  of  her  favors. 

That  there  are  people  who  succeed  brilliantly 
and  move  from  success  to  success,  amid  an  ap 
plauding  crowd  of  friends  and  admirers,  while 
others,  apparently  their  superiors  in  every  way, 
are  distanced  in  the  race,  is  an  undeniable  fact. 
You  have  but  to  glance  around  the  circle  of 
your  acquaintances  and  relations  to  be  convinced 
of  this  anomaly.  To  a  reflecting  mind  the  ques 
tion  immediately  presents  itself,  Why  is  this? 
General  society  is  certainly  cultivated  enough  to 
appreciate  intelligence  and  superiorendowments. 
How  then  does  it  happen  that  the  social  favor 
ites  are  so  often  lacking  in  the  qualities  which 
at  a  first  glance  would  seem  indispensable  to 
success? 

Before  going  any  further  let  us  stop  a  mo 
ment,  and  look  at  the  subject  from  another  side, 
for  it  is  more  serious  than  appears  to  be  on  the 
surface.  To  be  loved  by  those  around  us,  to  stand 
well  in  the  world,  is  certainly  the  most  legitimate 
as  well  as  the  most  common  of  ambitions,  as  well 
as  the  incentive  to  most  of  the  industry  and  per 
severance  in  life.  Aside  from  science,  which  is 
sometimes  followed  for  itself  alone,  and  virtue, 
which  we  are  told  looks  for  no  other  reward,  the 
hope  which  inspires  a  great  deal  of  the  persistent 
efforts  we  see,  is  generally  that  of  raising  one's 
self  and  those  one  loves  by  one's  efforts  into  a 
sphere  higher  than  where  cruel  fate  had  placed 

[  232  ] 


d  QUESTION  <AND   <AN  ANSWER 

them;  that  they,  too,  may  take  their  place  in  the 
sunshine  and  enjoy  the  good  things  of  life.  This 
ambition  is  often  purely  disinterested;  a  life  of 
hardest  toil  is  cheerfully  borne,  with  the  hope 
(for  sole  consolation)  that  dear  ones  will  profit 
later  by  all  the  work,  and  live  in  a  circle  the  pa 
tient  toiler  never  dreams  of  entering.  Surely  he 
is  astern  moralist  who  would  deny  this  satisfaction 
to  the  breadwinner  of  a  family. 

There  are  doubtless  many  higher  motives  in 
life,  more  elevated  goals  toward  which  strug 
gling  humanity  should  strive.  If  you  examine 
the  average  mind,  however,  you  will  be  pretty 
sure  to  find  that  success  is  the  touchstone  by 
which  we  judge  our  fellows  and  what,  in  our 
hearts,  we  admire  the  most.  That  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  either,  for  we  have  done  all  we  can 
to  implant  it  there.  From  a  child's  first  opening 
thought,  it  is  impressed  upon  him  that  the  great 
object  of  existence  is  to  succeed.  Did  a  parent 
ever  tell  a  child  to  try  and  stand  last  in  his 
class?  And  yet  humility  is  a  virtue  we  admire  in 
the  abstract.  Are  any  of  us  willing  to  step  aside 
and  see  our  inferiors  pass  us  in  the  race?  That 
is  too  much  to  ask  of  poor  humanity.  Were 
other  and  higher  standards  to  be  accepted,  the 
structure  of  civilization  as  it  exists  to-day  would 
crumble  away  and  the  great  machine  run  down. 

In  returning  to  my  correspondent  and  her 
perfectly  legitimate  desire  to  know  the  road  to 
success,  we  must  realize  that  to  a  large  part  of 

[  233  ] 


the  world  social  success  is  the  only  kind  they 
understand.  The  great  inventors  and  benefactors 
of  mankind  live  too  far  away  on  a  plane  by 
themselves  to  be  the  object  of  jealousy  to  any 
but  a  very  small  circle;  on  the  other  hand,  in 
these  days  of  equality,  especially  in  this  country 
where  caste  has  never  existed,  the  social  world 
seems  to  hold  out  alluring  and  tangible  gifts  to 
him  who  can  enter  its  enchanted  portals.  Even 
politics,  to  judge  by  the  actions  of  some  of  our 
legislators,  of  late,  would  seem  to  be  only  a  step 
ping-stone  to  its  door! 

"  But  my  question,"  I  hear  my  fair  interloc 
utor  saying.  "You  are  not  answering  it!" 

All  in  good  time,  my  dear.  I  am  just  about 
to  do  so.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Darwin  and  his 
theory  of  " selection ?"  It  would  be  a  slight  to 
your  intelligence  not  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
you  had.  Well,  my  observations  in  the  world 
lead  me  to  believe  that  we  follow  there  uncon 
sciously,  the  same  rules  that  guide  the  wild 
beasts  in  the  forest.  Certain  individuals  are  en 
dowed  by  nature  with  temperaments  which  make 
them  take  naturally  to  a  social  life  and  shine 
there.  In  it  they  find  their  natural  element. 
They  develop  freely  just  where  others  shrivel 
up  and  disappear.  There  is  continually  going  on 
unseen  a  "natural  selection,"  the  discarding  of 
unfit  material,  the  assimilation  of  new  and  con 
genial  elements  from  outside,  with  the  logical 
result  of  a  survival  of  the  fittest.  Aside  from 


*f  QUESTION  <AND   <AN  ANSWER 

this,  you  will  find  in  "the  world,"  as  anywhere 
else,  that  the  person  who  succeeds  is  generally 
he  who  has  been  willing  to  give  the  most  of  his 
strength  and  mind  to  that  one  object,  and  has 
not  allowed  the  flowers  on  the  hillside  to  dis 
tract  him  from  his  path,  remembering  also  that 
genius  is  often  but  the  "capacity  for  taking  infin 
ite  pains." 

There  are  people  so  constituted  that  they 
cheerfully  give  the  efforts  of  a  lifetime  to  the 
attainment  of  a  brilliant  social  position.  No  fa 
tigue  is  too  great,  and  no  snubs  too  bitter  to  be 
willingly  undergone  in  pursuit  of  the  cherished 
object.  You  will  never  find  such  an  individual, 
for  instance,  wandering  in  the  flowery  byways 
that  lead  to  art  or  letters,  for  that  would  waste 
his  time.  If  his  family  are  too  hard  to  raise,  he 
will  abandon  the  attempt  and  rise  without  them, 
for  he  cannot  help  himself.  He  is  but  an  atom 
working  as  blindly  upward  as  the  plant  that 
pushes  its  mysterious  way  towards  the  sun. 
Brains  are  not  necessary.  Good  looks  are  but  a 
trump  the  more  in  the  "hand."  Manners  may 
help,  but  are  not  essential.  The  object  can  be 
and  is  attained  daily  without  all  three.  Wealth  is 
but  the  oil  that  makes  the  machinery  run  more 
smoothly.  The  all-important  factor  is  the  desire 
to  succeed,  so  strong  that  it  makes  any  price 
seem  cheap,  and  that  can  pay  itself  by  a  step 
gained,  for  mortification  and  weariness  and  heart 
burnings. 


WdTS    fcf 


There,  my  dear,  is  the  secret  of  success  !  I  stop 
because  I  feel  myself  becoming  bitter,  and  that 
is  a  frame  of  mind  to  be  carefully  avoided,  be 
cause  it  interferes  with  the  digestion  and  upsets 
one's  gentle  calm!  I  have  tried  to  answer  your 
question.  The  answer  resolves  itself  into  these 
two  things;  that  it  is  necessary  to  be  born  with 
qualities  which  you  may  not  possess,  and  calls  for 
sacrifices  you  would  doubtless  be  unwilling  to 
make.  It  remains  with  you  to  decide  if  the  little 
game  is  worth  the  candle.  The  delightful  com 
mon  sense  I  feel  quite  sure  you  possess  reas 
sures  me  as  to  your  answer. 

Take  gayly  such  good  things  as  may  float 
your  way,  and  profit  by  them  while  they  last. 
Wander  ofF  into  all  the  cross-roads  that  tempt 
you.  Stop  often  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to  a  less 
fortunate  traveller.  Rest  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
as  your  spirit  prompts  you.  Sit  down  before  the 
sunset  and  revel  in  its  beauty  and  you  will  find 
your  voyage  through  life  much  more  satisfactory 
to  look  back  to  and  full  of  far  sweeter  memories 
than  if  by  sacrificing  any  of  these  pleasures  you 
had  attained  the  greatest  of  "positions." 


2V*- 35 

Living  on  Your  Friends 

THACKERAY  devoted  a  chapter  in 
"Vanity  Fair"  to  the  problem  "How 
to  Live  Well  on  Nothing  a  Year."  It 
was  neither  a  very  new  nor  a  very  ingenious  ex 
pedient  that  "Becky"  resorted  to  when  she  dis 
counted  her  husband's  position  and  connection 
to  fleece  the  tradespeople  and  cheat  an  old 
family  servant  out  of  a  year's  rent.  The  author 
might  more  justly  have  used  his  clever  phrase 
in  describing  "Major  Pendennis's"  agreeable 
existence.  We  have  made  great  progress  in  this, 
as  in  almost  every  other  mode  of  living,  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  Victorian  era;  intelligent  indi 
viduals  of  either  sex,  who  know  the  ropes,  can 
now  as  easily  lead  the  existence  of  a  multi-mil 
lionaire  (with  as  much  satisfaction  to  themselves 
and  their  friends)  as  though  the  bank  account, 
with  all  its  attendant  worries,  stood  in  their  own 
names.  This  subject  is  so  vast,  its  ramifications 
so  far-reaching  and  complicated,  that  one  hesi 
tates  before  launching  into  an  analysis  of  it.  It 
will  be  better  simply  to  give  a  few  interesting 
examples,  and  a  general  rule  or  two,  for  the  en 
lightenment  and  guidance  of  ingenious  souls. 

Human  nature  changes  little;  all  that  our  ed 
ucational  and  social  training  has  accomplished 
is  a  smoothing  of  the  surface.  One  of  the  most 

[  237  ] 


<BYW<AYS 


striking  proofs  of  this  is,  that  here  in  our  primi 
tive  country,  as  soon  as  accumulation  of  capital 
allowed  certain  families  to  live  in  great  luxury, 
they  returned  to  the  ways  of  older  aristocracies, 
and,  with  other  wants,  felt  the  necessity  of  a  court 
about  them,  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  waiting,  pages 
and  jesters.  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum,  so  a  class  of 
people  immediately  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
rush  in  and  fill  the  void.  Our  aristocrats  were  not 
even  obliged  to  send  abroad  to  fill  these  vacan 
cies,  as  they  were  for  their  footmen  and  butlers; 
the  native  article  was  quite  ready  and  willing  and, 
considering  the  little  practice  it  could  have  had, 
proved  wonderfully  adapted  to  the  work. 

When  the  mania  for  building  immense  coun 
try  houses  and  yachts  (the  owning  of  opera 
boxes  goes  a  little  further  back)  first  attacked 
this  country,  the  builders  imagined  that,  once 
completed,  it  would  be  the  easiest,  as  well  as  the 
most  delightful  task  to  fill  them  with  the  pick 
of  their  friends,  that  they  could  get  all  the  tal 
ented  and  agreeable  people  they  wanted  by  sim 
ply  making  a  sign.  To  their  astonishment,  they 
discovered  that  what  appeared  so  simple  was  a 
difficult,  as  well  as  a  thankless  labor.  I  remember 
asking  a  lady  who  had  owned  a  "proscenium" 
at  the  old  Academy,  why  she  had  decided  not 
to  take  a  box  in  the  (then)  new  opera-house. 

"Because,  having  passed  thirty  years  of  my 
life  inviting  people  to  sit  in  my  box,  I  intend 
now  to  rest."  It  is  very  much  the  same  thing 


LI7INQ    O^   rOU^    FRIENDS 

with  yachts.  A  couple  who  had  determined  to 
go  around  the  world,  in  their  lately  finished  boat, 
were  dumbfounded  to  find  their  invitations  were 
not  eagerly  accepted.  After  exhausting  the  small 
list  of  people  they  really  wanted,  they  began  with 
others  indifferent  to  them,  and  even  then  filled 
out  their  number  with  difficulty.  A  hostess  who 
counts  on  a  series  of  house  parties  through  the 
autumn  months,  must  begin  early  in  the  sum 
mer  if  she  is  to  have  the  guests  she  desires. 

It  is  just  here  that  the  "professional,"  if  I 
may  be  allowed  to  use  such  an  expression,  comes 
to  the  front.  He  is  always  available.  It  is  indif 
ferent  to  him  if  he  starts  on  a  tour  around  the 
world  or  for  a  winter  spree  to  Montreal.  He  is 
always  amusing,  good-humored,  and  can  be 
counted  on  at  the  last  moment  to  fill  any  vacant 
place,  without  being  the  least  offended  at  the 
tardy  invitation,  for  he  belongs  to  the  class  who 
have  discovered  "how  to  live  well  on  nothing 
a  year."  Luxury  is  as  the  breath  of  his  nostrils, 
but  his  means  allow  of  little  beyond  necessities. 
The  temptation  must  be  great  when  everything 
that  he  appreciates  most  (and  cannot  afford)  is 
urged  upon  him.  We  should  not  pose  as  too 
stern  moralists,  and  throw  stones  at  him;  for 
there  may  enter  more  "best  French  plate"  into 
the  composition  of  our  own  houses  than  we  im 
agine. 

It  is  here  our  epoch  shows  its  improvement 
over  earlier  and  cruder  days.  At  present  no  toad- 

[  239  ] 


WrfYS    fcf 


eating  is  connected  with  the  acceptance  of  hos 
pitality,  or,  if  occasionally  a  small  "batrachian" 
is  offered,  it  is  so  well  disguised  by  an  accom 
plished  chef,  and  served  on  such  exquisite  old 
Dresden,  that  it  slips  down  with  very  little  ef 
fort.  Even  this  rarely  occurs,  unless  the  guest 
has  allowed  himself  to  become  the  inmate  of  a 
residence  or  yacht.  Then  he  takes  his  chance 
with  other  members  of  the  household,  and  if  the 
host  or  hostess  happens  to  have  a  bad  temper  as 
a  set-off  to  their  good  table,  it  is  apt  to  fare  ill 
with  our  friend. 

So  far,  I  have  spoken  of  this  class  in  the 
masculine,  which  is  an  error,  as  the  art  is  suc 
cessfully  practised  by  the  weaker  sex,  with  this 
shade  of  difference.  As  an  unmarried  woman  is 
in  less  general  demand,  she  is  apt  to  attach  her 
self  to  one  dear  friend,  always  sure  to  be  a  lady 
in  possession  of  fine  country  and  city  houses 
and  other  appurtenances  of  wealth,  often  of  in 
ferior  social  standing;  so  that  there  is  give  and 
take,  the  guest  rendering  real  service  to  an  am 
bitious  hostess.  The  feminine  aspirant  need  not 
be  handsome.  On  the  contrary,  an  agreeable 
plainness  is  much  more  acceptable,  serving  as 
a  foil.  But  she  must  be  excellent  in  all  games, 
from  golf  to  piquet,  and  willing  to  play  as  often 
and  as  long  as  required.  She  must  also  cheer 
fully  go  in  to  dinner  with  the  blue  ribbon  bore 
of  the  evening,  only  asked  on  account  of  his 
pretty  wife  (by  the  bye,  why  is  it  that  Beauty 


rou^  FRIENDS 


is  so  often  flanked  by  the  Beast?),  and  sit  be 
tween  him  and  the  "second  prize"  bore.  These 
two  worthies  would  have  been  the  portion  of 
the  hostess  fifteen  years  ago;  she  would  have 
considered  it  her  duty  to  absorb  them  and  pre 
vent  her  other  guests  suffering.  Mais  nous  avons 
change  tout  cela.  The  lady  of  the  house  now  thinks 
first  of  amusing  herself,  and  arranges  to  sit  be 
tween  two  favorites. 

Society  has  become  much  simpler,  and  espe 
cially  less  expensive,  for  unmarried  men  than  it 
used  to  be.  Even  if  a  hostess  asks  a  favor  in 
return  for  weeks  of  hospitality,  the  sacrifice  she 
requires  of  a  man  is  rarely  greater  than  a  cotil 
lion  with  an  unattractive  debutante  whom  she  is 
trying  to  launch  ;  or  the  sitting  through  a  partic 
ularly  dull  opera  in  order  to  see  her  to  the  car 
riage,  her  lord  and  master  having  slipped  off"  early 
to  his  club  and  a  quiet  game  of  pool.  Many 
people  who  read  these  lines  are  old  enough  to 
remember  that  prehistoric  period  when  unmar 
ried  girls  went  to  the  theatre  and  parties,  alone 
with  the  men  they  knew.  This  custom  still  pre 
vails  in  our  irrepressible  West.  It  was  an  arrange 
ment  by  which  all  the  expenses  fell  on  the  man  — 
theatre  tickets,  carriages  if  it  rained,  and  often  a 
bit  of  supper  after.  If  a  youth  asked  a  girl  to 
dance  the  cotillion,  he  was  expected  to  send  a  bou 
quet,  sure  to  cost  between  twenty  and  twenty-five 
dollars.  What  a  blessed  change  for  the  impecuni 
ous  swell  when  all  this  went  out  of  fashion!  New 


York  is  his  paradise  now;  in  other  parts  of  the 
world  something  is  still  expected  of  him.  In 
France  it  takes  the  form  of  a  handsome  bag  of 
bon-bons  on  New  Year's  Day,  if  he  has  accepted 
hospitality  during  the  past  year.  While  here  he 
need  do  absolutely  nothing  (unless  he  wishes  to), 
the  occasional  leaving  of  a  card  having  been  sup 
pressed  of  late  by  ourjeunesse  doree^  five  minutes 
of  their  society  in  an  opera  box  being  estimated 
(by  them)  as  ample  return  for  a  dinner  or  a  week 
in  a  country  house. 

The  truth  of  it  is,  there  are  so  few  men  who 
"go  out"  (it  being  practically  impossible  for  any 
one  working  at  a  serious  profession  to  sit  up 
night  after  night,  even  if  he  desired),  and  at 
the  same  time  so  many  women  insist  on  enter 
taining  to  amuse  themselves  or  better  their  po 
sition,  that  the  men  who  go  about  get  spoiled 
and  almost  come  to  consider  the  obligation  con 
ferred,  when  they  dine  out.  There  is  no  more 
amusing  sight  than  poor  paterfamilias  sitting  in 
the  club  between  six  and  seven  p.  M.  pretending 
to  read  the  evening  paper,  but  really  with  his  eye 
on  the  door;  he  has  been  sent  down  by  his  wife 
to  "get  a  man,"  as  she  is  one  short  for  her  din 
ner  this  evening.  He  must  be  one  who  will  fit  in 
well  with  the  other  guests;  hence  papa's  anxious 
look,  and  the  reason  the  editorial  gets  so  little  of 
his  attention!  Watch  him  as  young  "profes 
sional"  lounges  in.  There  is  just  his  man — if  he 
only  happens  to  be  disengaged!  You  will  see 


03^  rou^  FRIENDS 

"Pater"  cross  the  room  and  shake  hands,  then, 
after  a  few  minutes'  whispered  conversation,  he 
will  walk  down  to  his  coupe  with  such  a  relieved 
look  on  his  face.  Young  "professional,"  who  is 
in  faultless  evening  dress,  will  ring  for  a  cocktail, 
and  take  up  the  discarded  evening  paper  to  pass 
the  time  till  eight  twenty-five. 

Eight  twenty-five,  advisedly,  for  he  will  be 
the  last  to  arrive,  knowing,  clever  dog,  how 
much  eclat  it  gives  one  to  have  a  room  full  of 
people  asking  each  other,  "Whom  are  we  wait 
ing  for?"  when  the  door  opens,  and  he  is  an 
nounced.  He  will  stay  a  moment  after  the  other 
guests  have  gone  and  receive  the  most  cordial 
pressures  of  the  hand  from  a  grateful  hostess  (if 
not  spoken  words  of  thanks)  in  return  for  eating 
an  exquisitely  cooked  dinner,  seated  between  two 
agreeable  women,  drinking  irreproachable  wine, 
smoking  a  cigar,  and  washing  the  whole  down 
with  a  glass  of  1830  brandy,  or  some  priceless 
historic  madeira. 

There  is  probably  a  moral  to  be  extracted 
from  all  this.  But  frankly  my  ethics  are  so  mixed 
that  I  fail  to  see  where  the  blame  lies,  and  which 
is  the  less  worthy  individual,  the  ostentatious 
axe-grinding  host  or  the  interested  guest.  One 
thing,  however,  I  see  clearly,  viz.,  that  life  is 
very  agreeable  to  him  who  starts  in  with  few 
prejudices,  good  manners,  a  large  amount  of 
well-concealed  "cheek"  and  the  happy  faculty 
of  taking  things  as  they  come. 


N°-  36 

American  Society  in  Italy 


THE  phrase  at  the  head  of  this  chapter 
and  other  sentences,  such  as  "Ameri 
can  Society  in  Paris,"  or  London,  are 
constantly  on  the  lips  of  people  who  should 
know  better.  In  reality  these  societies  do  not 
exist.  Does  my  reader  pause,  wondering  if  he 
can  believe  his  eyes?  He  has  doubtless  heard  all 
his  life  of  these  delightful  circles,  and  believes 
in  them.  He  may  even  have  dined,  en  -passant,  at 
the  "palace"  of  some  resident  compatriot  in 
Rome  or  Florence,  under  the  impression  that 
he  was  within  its  mystic  limits.  Illusion!  An 
effect  of  mirage,  making  that  which  appears 
quite  tangible  and  solid  when  viewed  from  a  dis 
tance  dissolve  into  thin  air  as  one  approaches; 
like  the  mirage,  cheating  the  weary  traveller  with 
a  vision  of  what  he  most  longs  for. 

Forty,  even  fifty  years  ago,  there  lived  in 
Rome  a  group  of  very  agreeable  people;  Story 
and  the  two  Greenoughs  and  Crawford,  the 
sculptor  (father  of  the  brilliant  novelist  of  to 
day)  ;  Charlotte  Cushman  (who  divided  her  time 
between  Rome  and  Newport),  and  her  friend 
Miss  Stebbins,  the  sculptress,  to  whose  hands 
we  owe  the  bronze  fountain  on  the  Mall  in  our 
Park;  Rogers,  then  working  at  the  bronze  doors 
of  our  capitol,  and  many  other  cultivated  and 

[  244  ] 


SOCIETT   IN   IT^LT 


agreeable  people.  Hawthorne  passed  a  couple 
of  winters  among  them,  and  the  tone  of  that  so 
ciety  is  reflected  in  his  "  Marble  Faun."  He  took 
Story  as  a  model  for  his  "Kenyon,"  and  was 
the  first  to  note  the  exotic  grace  of  an  American 
girl  in  that  strange  setting.  They  formed  as 
transcendental  and  unworldly  a  group  as  ever 
gathered  about  a  "tea"  table.  Great  things  were 
expected  of  them  and  their  influence,  but  they 
disappointed  the  world,  and,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  Hawthorne,  are  being  fast  forgotten. 

Nothing  could  be  simpler  than  life  in  the 
papal  capital  in  those  pleasant  days.  Money  was 
rare,  but  living  was  delightfully  inexpensive.  It 
was  about  that  time,  if  I  do  not  mistake,  that  a 
list  was  published  in  New  York  of  the  citizens 
worth  one  hundred  thousand  dollars;  and  it  was 
not  a  long  one!  The  Roman  colony  took  "tea" 
informally  with  each  other,  and  "received"  on 
stated  evenings  in  their  studios  (when  mulled 
claret  and  cakes  were  the  only  refreshment  of 
fered;  very  bad  they  were,  too),  and  migrated  in 
the  summer  to  the  mountains  near  Rome  or  to 
Sorrento.  In  the  winter  months  their  circle  was 
enlarged  by  a  contingent  from  home.  Among 
wealthy  New  Yorkers,  it  was  the  fashion  in  the 
early  fifties  to  pass  a  winter  in  Rome,  when,  to 
gether  with  his  other  dissipations,  paterfamilias 
would  sit  to  one  of  the  American  sculptors  for 
his  bust,  which  accounts  for  the  horrors  one  now 
runs  across  in  dark  corners  of  country  houses,  — 


WORLDLY   WdYS    far 


ghostly  heads  in  "chin  whiskers"  and  Roman 
draperies. 

The  son  of  one  of  these  pioneers,  more  rich 
than  cultivated,  noticed  the  other  day,  while  vis 
iting  a  friend  of  mine,  an  exquisite  eighteenth- 
century  bust  of  Madame  de  Pompadour,  the 
pride  of  his  hostess's  drawing-room.  "Ah!"  said 
Midas,  "are  busts  the  fashion  again?  I  have  one 
of  my  father,  done  in  Rome  in  1  850.  I  will  bring 
it  down  and  put  it  in  my  parlor." 

The  travellers  consulted  the  residents  in  their 
purchases  of  copies  of  the  old  masters,  for  there 
were  fashions  in  these  luxuries  as  in  everything 
else.  There  was  a  run  at  that  time  on  the  "Ma 
donna  in  the  Chair;"  and  "Beatrice  Cenci"  was 
long  prime  favorite.  Thousands  of  the  latter  leer 
ing  and  winking  over  her  everlasting  shoulder, 
were  solemnly  sent  home  each  year.  No  one 
ever  dreamed  of  buying  an  original  painting! 
The  tourists  also  developed  a  taste  for  large 
marble  statues,  "Nydia,  the  Blind  Girl  of  Pom 
peii"  (people  read  Bulwer,  Byron  and  the  Bible 
then)  being  in  such  demand  that  I  knew  one 
block  in  lower  Fifth  Avenue  that  possessed 
seven  blind  Nydias,  all  life-size,  in  white  mar 
ble,  —  a  form  of  decoration  about  as  well  adapted 
to  those  scanty  front  parlors  as  a  steam  engine 
or  a  carriage  and  pair  would  have  been.  I  fear 
Bulwer's  heroine  is  at  a  discount  now,  and  often 
wonder  as  I  see  those  old  residences  turning  into 
shops,  what  has  become  of  the  seven  white  ele- 

[246] 


SOCIETT  IN  IT<ALT 


phants  and  all  their  brothers  and  sisters  that  our 
innocent  parents  brought  so  proudly  back  from 
Italy!  I  have  succeeded  in  locating  two  statues 
evidently  imported  at  that  time.  They  grace  the 
back  steps  of  a  rather  shabby  villa  in  the  country, 
—  Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  larger  than  life, 
dreary,  funereal  memorials  of  the  follies  of  our 
fathers. 

The  simple  days  we  have  been  speaking  of 
did  not,  however,  outlast  the  circle  that  inau 
gurated  them.  About  1867  a  few  rich  New 
Yorkers  began  "trying  to  know  the  Italians  "and 
go  about  with  them.  One  family,  "up  to  snuff" 
in  more  senses  than  one,  married  their  daugh 
ter  to  the  scion  of  a  princely  house,  and  imme 
diately  a  large  number  of  her  compatriots  were 
bitten  with  the  madness  of  going  into  Italian 
society. 

In  1870,  Rome  became  the  capital  of  united 
Italy.  The  court  removed  there.  The  "improve 
ments"  began.  Whole  quarters  were  remodelled, 
and  the  dear  old  Rome  of  other  days,  the  Rome 
of  Hawthorne  and  Madame  de  Stae'l,  was  swept 
away.  With  this  new  state  of  things  came  a  num 
ber  of  Americo-Italian  marriages,  more  or  less 
successful  ;  and  anything  like  an  American  society, 
properly  so-called,  disappeared.  To-day  families 
of  our  compatriots  passing  the  winter  months  in 
Rome  are  either  tourists  who  live  in  hotels,  and 
see  sights,  or  go  (as  far  as  they  can)  into  Italian 
society. 


WO'R^L'DLY 


The  Queen  of  Italy,  who  speaks  excellent 
English,  developed  a  penchant  for  Americans,  and 
has  attached  several  who  married  Italians  to  her 
person  in  different  court  capacities;  indeed,  the 
old  "Black"  society,  who  have  remained  true 
to  the  Pope,  when  they  wish  to  ridicule  the  new 
"White"  or  royal  circle,  call  it  the  "American 
court!"  The  feeling  is  bitter  still  between  the 
"  Blacks"  and  "Whites,"  and  an  American  girl 
who  marries  into  one  of  these  circles  must  make 
up  her  mind  to  see  nothing  of  friends  or  relatives 
in  the  opposition  ranks.  It  is  said  that  an  amal 
gamation  is  being  brought  about,  but  it  is  slow 
work;  a  generation  will  have  to  die  out  before 
much  real  mingling  of  the  two  courts  will  take 
place.  As  both  these  circles  are  poor,  very  little 
entertainment  goes  on.  One  sees  a  little  life  in 
the  diplomatic  world,  and  the  King  and  Queen 
give  a  ball  or  two  during  the  winter,  but  since 
the  repeated  defeats  of  the  Italian  arms  in  Africa, 
and  the  heavy  financial  difficulties  (things  these 
sovereigns  take  very  seriously  to  heart),  there 
has  not  been  much  "go"  in  the  court  entertain 
ments. 

The  young  set  hope  great  things  of  the  new 
Princess  of  Naples,  the  bride  of  the  heir-appar 
ent,  a  lady  who  is  credited  with  being  full  of  fun 
and  life;  it  is  fondly  imagined  that  she  will  set  the 
ball  rolling  again.  By  the  bye,  her  first  lady-in- 
waiting,  the  young  Duchess  del  Monte  of  Na 
ples,  was  an  American  girl,  and  a  very  pretty 

[  248  ] 


<AMERIC<AN  SOCIETY    IN   IT^fLT 

one,  too.  She  enjoyed  for  some  time  the  enviable 
distinction  of  being  the  youngest  and  handsomest 
duchess  in  Europe,until  Miss  Vanderbilt  married 
Marlborough  and  took  the  record  from  her.  The 
Prince  and  Princess  of  Naples  live  at  their  Nea 
politan  capital,  and  will  not  do  much  to  help 
things  in  Rome.  Besides  which  he  is  very  deli 
cate  and  passes  for  not  being  any  too  fond  of  the 
world. 

What  makes  things  worse  is  that  the  great  no 
bles  are  mostly  "land  poor,"  and  even  the  richer 
ones  burned  their  fingers  in  the  craze  for  specu 
lation  that  turned  all  Rome  upside  down  in  the 
years  following  1870  and  Italian  unity,  when 
they  naively  imagined  their  new  capital  was  to 
become  again  after  seventeen  centuries  the  me 
tropolis  of  the  world.  Whole  quarters  of  new 
houses  were  run  up  for  a  population  that  failed 
to  appear;  these  houses  now  stand  empty  and 
are  fast  going  to  ruin.  So  that  little  in  the  way 
of  entertaining  is  to  be  expected  from  the  bank 
rupts.  They  are  a  genial  race,  these  Italian 
nobles,  and  welcome  rich  strangers  and  marry 
them  with  much  enthusiasm — just  a  shade  too 
much,  perhaps — the  girl  counting  for  so  little 
and  her  dot  for  so  much  in  the  matrimonial  scale. 
It  is  only  necessary  to  keep  open  house  to  have 
the  pick  of  the  younger  ones  as  your  guests. 
They  will  come  to  entertainments  at  American 
houses  and  bring  all  their  relations,  and  dance, 
and  dine,  and  flirt  with  great  good  humor  and 


persistency ;  but  if  there  is  not  a  good  solid  for 
tune  in  the  background,  in  the  best  of  securities, 
the  prettiest  American  smiles  never  tempt  them 
beyond  flirtation;  the  season  over,  they  disappear 
up  into  their  mountain  villas  to  wait  for  a  new  im 
portation  from  the  States. 

In  Rome,  as  well  as  in  the  other  Italian  cities, 
there  are,  of  course,  still  to  be  found  Americans 
in  some  numbers  (where  on  the  Continent  will 
you  not  find  them?),  living  quietly  for  study  or 
economy.  But  they  are  not  numerous  or  united 
enough  to  form  a  society;  and  are  apt  to  be  in 
volved  in  bitter  strife  among  themselves. 

Why,  you  ask,  should  Americans  quarrel 
among  themselves? 

Some  years  ago  I  was  passing  the  summer 
months  on  the  Rhine  at  a  tiny  German  watering- 
place,  principally  frequented  by  English,  who 
were  all  living  together  in  great  peace  and  har- 
mony,until  one  fatal  day,  when  an  Earl  appeared. 
He  was  a  poor  Irish  Earl,  very  simple  and  un 
offending,  but  he  brought  war  into  that  town, 
heart-burnings,  envy,  and  backbiting.  The  Eng 
lish  colony  at  once  divided  itself  into  two  camps, 
those  who  knew  the  Earl  and  those  who  did  not. 
And  peace  fled  from  our  little  society.  You  will 
find  in  every  foreign  capital  among  the  resident 
Americans,  just  such  a  state  of  affairs  as  con 
vulsed  that  German  spa.  The  native  "swells" 
have  come  to  be  the  apple  of  discord  that  divides 
our  good  people  among  themselves.  Those  who 
[  250  ] 


SOCIETT    IN    IT^tLT 


have  been  successful  in  knowing  the  foreigners 
avoid  their  compatriots  and  live  with  their  new 
friends,  while  the  other  group  who,  from  lazi 
ness,  disinclination,  or  principle  (?)  have  re 
mained  true  to  their  American  circle,  cannot 
resist  calling  the  others  snobs,  and  laughing  (a 
bit  enviously,  perhaps)  at  their  upward  struggles. 
It  is  the  same  in  Florence.  The  little  there 
was  left  of  an  American  society  went  to  pieces 
on  that  rock.  Our  parents  forty  years  ago  seem 
to  me  to  have  been  much  more  self-respe<5ting 
and  sensible.  They  knew  perfectly  well  that 
there  was  nothing  in  common  between  them 
selves  and  the  Italian  nobility,  and  that  those 
good  people  were  not  going  to  put  themselves 
out  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  alot  of  strangers, 
mostly  of  another  religion,  unless  it  was  to  be 
materially  to  their  advantage.  So  they  left  them 
quietly  alone.  I  do  not  pretend  to  judge  any 
one's  motives,  but  confess  I  cannot  help  regard 
ing  with  suspicion  a  foreigner  who  leaves  his  own 
circle  to  mingle  with  strangers.  It  resembles  too 
closely  the  amiabilities  of  the  wolf  for  the  lamb, 
or  the  sudden  politeness  of  a  school-boy  to  a 
little  girl  who  has  received  a  box  of  candies. 


No.3? 

The  Newport  of  the  Past 

FEW  of  the  "carriage  ladies  and  gentle 
men  "who  disport  themselves  in  Newport 
during  the  summer  months,  yachting  and 
dancing  through  the  short  season,  then  flitting 
away  to  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new,  realize 
that  their  daintily  shod  feet  have  been  treading 
historic  ground,  or  care  to  cast  a  thought  back 
to  the  past.  Oddly  enough,  to  the  majority  of 
people  the  past  is  a  volume  rarely  opened.  Not 
that  it  bores  them  to  read  it,  but  because  they, 
like  children,  want  some  one  to  turn  over  its 
yellow  leaves  and  point  out  the  pictures  to  them. 
Few  of  the  human  motes  that  dance  in  the  rays 
of  the  afternoon  sun  as  they  slant  across  the  little 
Park,  think  of  the  fable  which  asserts  that  a 
sea-worn  band  of  adventurous  men,  centuries 
before  the  Cabots  or  the  Genoese  discoverer 
thought  of  crossing  the  Atlantic,  had  pushed 
bravely  out  over  untried  seas  and  landed  on  this 
rocky  coast.  Yet  one  apparent  evidence  of  their 
stay  tempts  our  thoughts  back  to  the  times  when 
it  is  said  to  have  been  built  as  a  bower  for  a  king's 
daughter.  Longfellow,  in  the  swinging  verse  of 
his  "Skeleton  in  Armor,"  breathing  of  the  sea 
and  the  Norseman's  fatal  love,  has  thrown  such 
a  glamour  of  poetry  around  the  tower,  that  one 
would  fain  believe  all  he  relates.  The  hardy 


THE    NEWPORT    OF    THE 


Norsemen,  if  they  ever  came  here,  succumbed 
in  their  struggle  with  the  native  tribes,  or,  dis 
couraged  by  death  and  hardships,  sailed  away, 
leaving  the  clouds  of  oblivion  to  close  again 
darkly  around  this  continent,  and  the  fog  of  dis 
cussion  to  circle  around  the  "Old  Mill." 

The  little  settlement  of  another  race,  speak 
ing  another  tongue,  that  centuries  later  sprang 
up  in  the  shadow  of  the  tower,  quickly  grew  into 
a  busy  and  prosperous  city,  which,  like  New  York, 
its  rival,  was  captured  and  held  by  the  English. 
To  walk  now  through  some  of  its  quaint,  narrow 
streets  is  to  step  back  into  Revolutionary  days. 
Hardly  a  house  has  changed  since  the  time  when 
the  red  coats  of  the  British  officers  brightened 
the  prim  perspectives,  and  turned  loyal  young 
heads  as  they  passed. 

At  the  corner  of  Spring  and  Pelham  Streets, 
still  stands  the  residence  of  General  Prescott,who 
was  carried  away  prisoner  by  his  opponents,  they 
having  rowed  down  in  whale-boats  from  Provi 
dence  for  the  attack.  Rochambeau,  our  French 
ally,  lodged  lower  down  in  Mary  Street.  In  the 
tower  of  Trinity,  one  can  read  the  epitaph  of  the 
unfortunate  Chevalier  de  Ternay,  commander  of 
the  sea  forces,  whose  body  lies  near  by.  Many 
years  later  his  relative,  the  Due  de  Noailles,when 
Minister  to  this  country,,  had  this  simple  tablet 
repaired  and  made  a  visit  to  the  spot. 

A  long  period  of  prosperity  followed  the  Rev 
olution,  during  which  Newport  grew  and  flour- 

[  253  ] 


W<AYS    fcf 


ished.  Our  pious  and  God-fearing  "forbears," 
having  secured  personal  and  religious  liberty, 
proceeded  to  inaugurate  a  most  successful  and 
remunerative  trade  in  rum  and  slaves.  It  was  a 
triangular  transaction  and  yielded  a  three-fold 
profit.  The  simple  population  of  that  day,  num 
bering  less  than  ten  thousand  souls,  possessed 
twenty  distilleries;  finding  it  a  physical  impos 
sibility  to  drink  all  the  rum,  they  conceived  the 
happy  thought  of  sending  the  surplus  across  to 
the  coast  of  Africa,  where  it  appears  to  have  been 
much  appreciated  by  the  native  chiefs,  who  eagerly 
exchanged  the  pick  of  their  loyal  subjects  for  that 
liquid.  These  poor  brutes  were  taken  to  the  West 
Indies  and  exchanged  for  sugar,  laden  with  which, 
the  vessels  returned  to  Newport. 

Having  introduced  the  dusky  chieftains  to 
the  charms  of  delirium  tremens  and  their  subjects 
to  life-long  slavery,  one  can  almost  see  these  pious 
deacons  proceeding  to  church  to  offer  up  thanks 
for  the  return  of  their  successful  vessels.  Alas  ! 
even  "the  best  laid  schemes  of  mice  and  men" 
come  to  an  end.  The  War  of  1  8  1  2,  the  opening 
of  the  Erie  Canal  and  sundry  railways  struck  a 
blow  at  Newport  commerce,  from  which  it  never 
recovered.  The  city  sank  into  oblivion,  and  for 
over  thirty  years  not  a  house  was  built  there. 

It  was  not  until  near  1840  that  the  Middle- 
tons  and  Izzards  and  other  wealthy  and  aristo 
cratic  Southern  families  were  tempted  to  Newport 
by  the  climate  and  the  facilities  it  offered  for  bath- 


THE    NEWPORT    OF    THE 


ing,  shooting  and  boating.  A  boarding-house  or 
two  sufficed  for  the  modest  wants  of  the  new 
comers,  first  among  which  stood  the  Aquidneck, 
presided  over  by  kind  Mrs.  Murray.  It  was  not 
until  some  years  later,  when  New  York  and 
Boston  families  began  to  appreciate  the  place, 
that  the  first  hotels  were  built,  —  the  Atlantic  on 
the  square  facing  the  old  mill,  the  Bellevue  and 
Fillmore  on  Catherine  Street,  and  finally  the 
original  Ocean  House,  destroyed  by  fire  in  1845 
and  rebuilt  as  we  see  it  to-day.  The  croakers  of 
the  epoch  considered  it  much  too  far  out  of  town 
to  be  successful,  for  at  its  door  the  open  fields 
began,  a  gate  there  separating  the  town  from  the 
country  across  which  a  straggling,  half-made  road, 
closed  by  innumerable  gates,  led  along  the  cliffs 
and  out  across  what  is  now  the  Ocean  Drive. 
The  principal  roads  at  that  time  led  inland;  any 
one  wishing  to  drive  seaward  had  to  descend 
every  two  or  three  minutes  to  open  a  gate.  The 
youth  of  the  day  discovered  a  source  of  income 
in  opening  and  closing  these  for  pennies. 

Fashion  had  decreed  that  the  correct  hour  for 
dancing  was  1  1  A.  M.,  and  matinees  dansantes  were 
regularly  given  at  the  hotels,  our  grandmothers 
appearing  in  decollete  muslin  frocks  adorned  with 
broad  sashes,  and  disporting  themselves  gayly 
until  the  dinner  hour.  Low-neck  dresses  were 
the  rule,  not  only  for  these  informal  entertain 
ments,  but  as  every-day  wear  for  young  girls,  — 
an  old  lady  only  the  other  day  telling  me  she 

[*«] 


W^YS    fcf 


had  never  worn  a  "high-body"  until  after  her 
marriage.  Two  o'clock  found  all  the  beauties  and 
beaux  dining.  How  incredulously  they  would 
have  laughed  if  any  one  had  prophesied  that 
their  grandchildren  would  prefer  eight  forty-five 
as  a  dinner  hour! 

The  opening  of  Bellevue  Avenue  marked  an 
other  epoch  in  the  history  of  Newport.  About 
that  time  Governor  Lawrence  bought  the  whole 
of  Ochre  Point  farm  for  fourteen  thousand  dol 
lars,  and  Mr.de  Rham  built  on  the  newly  opened 
road  the  first  "cottage,"  which  stands  to-day 
modestly  back  from  the  avenue  opposite  Perry 
Street.  If  houses  have  souls,  as  Hawthorne 
averred,  and  can  remember  and  compare,  what 
curious  thoughts  must  pass  through  the  oaken 
brain  of  this  simple  construction  as  it  sees  its  mar 
ble  neighbors  rearing  their  vast  facades  among 
trees.  The  trees,  too,  are  an  innovation,  for  when 
the  de  Rham  cottage  was  built  and  Mrs.  Cleve 
land  opened  her  new  house  at  the  extreme  end  of 
Rough  Point  (the  second  summer  residence  in 
the  place)  it  is  doubtful  if  a  single  tree  broke  the 
rocky  monotony  of  the  landscape  from  the  Ocean 
House  to  Bateman's  Point. 

Governor  Lawrence,  having  sold  one  acre  of 
his  Ochre  Point  farm  to  Mr.  Pendleton  for  the 
price  he  himself  had  paid  for  the  whole,  pro 
ceeded  to  build  a  stone  wall  between  the  two 
properties  down  to  the  water's  edge.  The  pop 
ulation  of  Newport  had  been  accustomed  to 


THE    NEWPORT   OF    THE    P^fST 

take  their  Sunday  airings  and  moonlight  rambles 
along  "the  cliffs,"  and  viewed  this  obstruction 
of  their  favorite  walk  with  dismay.  So  strong  was 
their  feeling  that  when  the  wall  was  completed 
the  young  men  of  the  town  repaired  there  in  the 
night  and  tore  it  down.  It  was  rebuilt,  the  mor 
tar  being  mixed  with  broken  glass.  This  infuri 
ated  the  people  to  such  an  extent  that  the  whole 
populace,  in  broad  daylight,  accompanied  by  the 
summer  visitors,  destroyed  the  wall  and  threw 
the  materials  into  the  sea.  Lawrence,  bent  on 
maintaining  what  he  considered  his  rights,  called 
the  law  to  his  aid.  It  was  then  discovered  that 
an  immemorial  riverain  right  gave  the  fishermen 
and  the  public  generally,  access  to  the  shore  for 
fishing,  and  also  to  collect  seaweed, — a  right  of 
way  that  no  one  could  obstruct. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  long  struggle 
between  the  cliff-dwellers  and  the  townspeople; 
each  new  property-owner,  disgusted  at  the  idea 
that  all  the  world  can  stroll  at  will  across  his 
well-kept  lawns,  has  in  turn  tried  his  hand  at 
suppressing  the  now  famous  "walk."  Not  only 
do  the  public  claim  the  liberty  to  walk  there, 
but  also  the  right  to  cross  any  property  to  get 
to  the  shore.  At  this  moment  the  city  fathers 
and  the  committee  of  the  new  buildings  at  Bai 
ley's  Beach  are  wrangling  as  gayly  as  in  Gover 
nor  Lawrence's  day  over  a  bit  of  wall  lately 
constructed  across  the  end  of  Bellevue  Avenue. 
A  new  expedient  has  been  hit  upon  by  some  of 

[  257  ] 


the  would-be  exclusive  owners  of  the  cliffs;  they 
have  lowered  the  "walk"  out  of  sight,  thus  in 
suring  their  own  privacy  and  in  no  way  interfer 
ing  with  the  rights  of  the  public. 

Among  the  gentlemen  who  settled  in  New 
port  about  Governor  Lawrence's  time  was  Lord 
Baltimore  (Mr.  Calvert,  he  preferred  to  call  him 
self),  who  remained  there  until  his  death.  He 
was  shy  of  referring  to  his  English  peerage,  but 
would  willingly  talk  of  his  descent  through  his 
mother  from  Peter  Paul  Rubens,  from  whom 
had  come  down  to  him  a  chateau  in  Holland 
and  several  splendid  paintings.  The  latter  hung 
in  the  parlor  of  the  modest  little  dwelling,  where 
I  was  taken  to  see  them  and  their  owner  many 
years  ago.  My  introducer  on  this  occasion  was 
herself  a  lady  of  no  ordinary  birth,  being  the 
daughter  of  Stuart,  our  greatest  portrait  painter. 
I  have  passed  many  quiet  hours  in  the  quaint 
studio  (the  same  her  father  had  used),  hearing 
her  prattle — as  she  loved  to  do  if  she  found 
a  sympathetic  listener — of  her  father,  of  Wash 
ington  and  his  pompous  ways,  and  the  many 
celebrities  who  had  in  turn  posed  before  Stuart's 
easel.  She  had  been  her  father's  companion 
and  aid,  present  at  the  sittings,  preparing  his 
brushes  and  colors,  and  painting  in  back 
grounds  and  accessories;  and  would  willingly 
show  his  palette  and  explain  his  methods  and 
theories  of  color,  his  predilection  for  scrumbling 
shadows  thinly  in  black  and  then  painting  boldly 


THE    NEWPORT    OF    THE 


in  with  body  color.  Her  lessons  had  not  prof 
ited  much  to  the  gentle,  kindly  old  lady,  for  the 
productions  of  her  own  brush  were  far  from  re 
sembling  her  great  parent's  work.  She,  however, 
painted  cheerfully  on  to  life's  close,  surrounded 
by  her  many  friends,  foremost  among  whom  was 
Charlotte  Cushman,  who  also  passed  the  last 
years  of  her  life  in  Newport.  Miss  Stuart  was 
over  eighty  when  I  last  saw  her,  still  full  of 
spirit  and  vigor,  beginning  the  portrait  of  a  fa 
mous  beauty  of  that  day,  since  the  wife  and 
mother  of  dukes. 

Miss  Stuart's  death  seems  to  close  one  of  the 
chapters  in  the  history  of  this  city,  and  to  break 
the  last  connecting  link  with  its  past.  The  world 
moves  so  quickly  that  the  simple  days  and  mod 
est  amusements  of  our  fathers  and  grandfathers 
have  already  receded  into  misty  remoteness.  We 
look  at  their  portraits  and  wonder  vaguely  at  their 
graceless  costumes.  We  know  they  trod  these  same 
streets,  and  laughed  and  flirted  and  married  as  we 
are  doing  to-day,  but  they  seem  to  us  strangely 
far  away,  like  inhabitants  of  another  sphere. 

It  is  humiliating  to  think  how  soon  we,  too, 
shall  have  become  the  ancestors  of  a  new  and 
careless  generation;  fresh  faces  will  replace  our 
faded  ones,  young  voices  will  laugh  as  they  look 
at  our  portraits  hanging  in  dark  corners,  won 
dering  who  we  were,  and  (criticising  the  apparel 
we  think  so  artistic  and  appropriate)  how  we  could 
ever  have  made  such  guys  of  ourselves. 


N°-   38 

A  Conquest  of  Europe 


THE  most  important  event  in  modern 
history  is  the  discovery  of  Europe  by 
the  Americans.  Before  it,  the  peoples 
of  the  Old  World  lived  happy  and  contented  in 
their  own  countries,  practising  the  patriarchal 
virtues  handed  down  to  them  from  generations 
of  forebears,  ignoring  alike  the  vices  and  bene 
fits  of  modern  civilization,  as  understood  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic.  The  simple-minded  Euro 
peans  remained  at  home,  satisfied  with  the  rank 
in  life  where  they  had  been  born,  and  innocent 
of  the  ways  of  the  new  world. 

These  peoples  were,  on  the  whole,  not  so  much 
to  be  pitied,  for  they  had  many  pleasing  crafts 
and  arts  unknown  to  the  invaders,  which  had 
enabled  them  to  decorate  their  capitals  with  taste 
in  a  rude  way;  nothing  really  great  like  the  lofty 
buildings  and  elevated  railway  structures,  exe 
cuted  in  American  cities,  but  interesting  as  show 
ing  what  an  ingenious  race,  deprived  of  the 
secrets  of  modern  science,  could  accomplish. 

The  more  aesthetic  of  the  newcomers  even 
affected  to  admire  the  antiquated  places  of  wor 
ship  and  residences  they  visited  abroad,  point 
ing  out  to  their  compatriots  that  in  many  cases 
marble,  bronze  and  other  old-fashioned  materi 
als  had  been  so  cleverly  treated  as  to  look  al- 
[  260  ] 


*f    CONQUEST    OF    EUROPE 

most  like  the  superior  cast-iron  employed  at 
home,  and  that  some  of  the  old  paintings,  pre 
served  with  veneration  in  the  museums,  had 
nearly  the  brilliancy  of  modern  chromos.  As 
their  authors  had,  however,  neglected  to  use  a 
process  lending  itself  to  rapid  reproduction,  they 
were  of  no  practical  value.  In  other  ways,  the 
continental  races,  when  discovered,  were  sadly 
behind  the  times.  In  business,  they  ignored  the 
use  of  "corners,"  that  backbone  of  American 
trade,  and  their  ideas  of  advertising  were  but 
little  in  advance  of  those  known  among  the 
ancient  Greeks. 

The  discovery  of  Europe  by  the  Americans 
was  made  about  1850,  at  which  date  the  first 
bands  of  adventurers  crossed  the  seas  in  search  of 
amusement.  The  reports  these  pioneers  brought 
back  of  the  naivete,  politeness,  and  gullibility  of 
the  natives,  and  the  cheapness  of  existence  in 
their  cities,  caused  a  general  exodus  from  the 
western  to  the  eastern  hemisphere.  Most  of  the 
Americans  who  had  used  up  their  credit  at  home 
and  those  whose  incomes  were  insufficient  for 
their  wants,  immediately  migrated  to  these  happy 
hunting  grounds,  where  life  was  inexpensive  and 
credit  unlimited. 

The  first  arrivals  enjoyed  for  some  twenty 
years  unique  opportunities.  They  were  able  to 
live  in  splendor  for  a  pittance  that  would  barely 
have  kept  them  in  necessaries  on  their  own  side 
of  the  Atlantic,  and  to  pick  up  valuable  speci- 


fcf 


mens  of  native  handiwork  for  nominal  sums.  In 
those  happy  days,  to  belong  to  the  invading  race 
was  a  sufficient  passport  to  the  good  graces  of 
the  Europeans,  who  asked  no  other  guarantees 
before  trading  with  the  new-comers,  but  flocked 
around  them,  offering  their  services  and  their 
primitive  manufactures,  convinced  that  Ameri 
cans  were  all  wealthy. 

Alas!  History  ever  repeats  itself.  As  Mexicans 
and  Peruvians,  after  receiving  their  conquerors 
with  confidence  and  enthusiasm,  came  to  rue  the 
day  they  had  opened  their  arms  to  strangers,  so 
the  European  peoples,  before  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury  was  over,  realized  that  the  hordes  from 
across  the  sea  who  were  over-running  their  lands, 
raising  prices,  crowding  the  native  students  out 
of  the  schools,  and  finally  attempting  to  force 
an  entrance  into  society,  had  little  to  recommend 
them  or  justify  their  presence  except  money. 
Even  in  this  some  of  the  intruders  were  unsat 
isfactory.  Those  who  had  been  received  into  the 
"bosom"  of  hotels  often  forgot  to  settle  before 
departing.  The  continental  women  who  had  pro 
vided  the  wives  of  discoverers  with  the  raiment 
of  the  country  (a  luxury  greatly  affected  by  those 
ladies)  found,  to  their  disgust,  that  their  new 
customers  were  often  unable  or  unwilling  to  offer 
any  remuneration. 

In  consequence  of  these  and  many  other  dis 
illusions,  Americans  began  to  be  called  the  "  De 
stroyers,"  especially  when  it  became  known  that 
[  262  ] 


e/f    CONQUEST   OF   EUROPE 

nothing  was  too  heavy  or  too  bulky  to  be  car 
ried  away  by  the  invaders,  who  tore  the  insides 
from  the  native  houses,  the  paintings  from  the 
walls,  the  statues  from  the  temples,  and  trans 
ported  this  booty  across  the  seas,  much  in  the 
same  way  as  the  Romans  had  plundered  Greece. 
Elaborate  furniture  seemed  especially  to  attract 
the  new  arrivals,  who  acquired  vast  quantities  of  it. 

Here,  however,  the  wily  natives  (who  were 
beginning  to  appreciate  their  own  belongings) 
had  revenge.  Immense  quantities  of  worthless 
imitations  were  secretly  manufactured  and  sold 
to  the  travellers  at  fabulous  prices.  The  same 
artifice  was  used  with  paintings,  said  to  be  by 
great  masters,  and  with  imitations  of  old  stuffs 
and  bric-a-brac,  which  the  ignorant  and  arrogant 
invaders  pretended  to  appreciate  and  colled:. 

Previous  to  our  arrival  there  had  been  an  in 
vasion  of  the  Continent  by  the  English  about 
the  year  1812.  One  of  their  historians,  called 
Thackeray,  gives  an  amusing  account  of  this  in 
the  opening  chapters  of  his  "Shabby  Genteel 
Story."  That  event,  however,  was  unimportant 
in  comparison  with  the  great  American  move 
ment,  although  both  were  characterized  by  the 
same  total  disregard  of  the  feelings  and  preju 
dices  of  indigenous  populations.  The  English 
then  walked  about  the  continental  churches  dur 
ing  divine  service,  gazing  at  the  pictures  and 
consulting  their  guide-books  as  unconcernedly 
as  our  compatriots  do  to-day.  They  also  crowded 


into  theatres  and  concert  halls,  and  afterwards 
wrote  to  the  newspapers  complaining  of  the  bad 
atmosphere  of  those  primitive  establishments 
and  of  the  long  entr'actes. 

As  long  as  the  invaders  confined  themselves 
to  such  trifles,  the  patient  foreigners  submitted 
to  their  overbearing  and  uncouth  ways  because 
of  the  supposed  benefit  to  trade.  The  natives 
even  went  so  far  as  to  build  hotels  for  the  ac 
commodation  and  delight  of  the  invaders,  aban 
doning  whole  quarters  to  their  guests. 

There  was,  however,  a  point  at  which  com 
placency  stopped.  The  older  civilizations  had 
formed  among  themselves  restricted  and  exclu 
sive  societies,  to  which  access  was  almost  impos 
sible  to  strangers.  These  sanctuaries  tempted  the 
immigrants,  who  offered  their  fairest  virgins  and 
much  treasure  for  the  privilege  of  admission. 
The  indigenous  aristocrats,  who  were  mostly 
poor,  yielded  to  these  offers  and  a  few  Americans 
succeeded  in  forcing  an  entrance.  But  the  old  no 
bility  soon  became  frightened  at  the  number  and 
vulgarity  of  the  invaders,  and  withdrew  severely 
into  their  shells,  refusing  to  accept  any  further 
bribes  either  in  the  form  of  females  or  finance. 

From  this  moment  dates  the  humiliation  of 
the  discoverers.  All  their  booty  and  plunder 
seemed  worthless  in  comparison  with  the  Elysian 
delights  they  imagined  were  concealed  behind  the 
closed  doors  of  those  holy  places,  visions  of  which 
tortured  the  women  from  the  western  hemisphere 


c/f  CONQUEST    OF    EUROPE 

and  prevented  their  taking  any  pleasure  in  other 
victories.  To  be  received  into  those  inner  circles 
became  their  chief  ambition.  With  this  end  in  view 
they  dressed  themselves  in  expensive  costumes, 
took  the  trouble  to  learn  the  "lingo"  spoken  in 
the  country,  went  to  the  extremity  of  copying 
the  ways  of  the  native  women  by  painting  their 
faces,  and  in  one  or  two  cases  imitated  the  laxity 
of  their  morals. 

In  spite  of  these  concessions,  our  women  were 
not  received  with  enthusiasm.  On  the  contrary, 
the  very  name  of  an  American  became  a  byword 
and  an  abomination  in  every  continental  city. 
This  prejudice  against  us  abroad  is  hardly  to  be 
wondered  at  on  reflecting  what  we  have  done  to 
acquire  it.  The  agents  chosen  by  our  govern 
ment  to  treat  diplomatically  with  the  conquered 
nations,  owe  their  selection  to  political  motives 
rather  than  to 'their  tact  or  fitness.  In  the  large  ma 
jority  of  cases  men  are  sent  over  who  know  little 
either  of  the  habits  or  languages  prevailing  in 
Europe. 

The  worst  elements  always  follow  in  the  wake 
of  discovery.  Our  settlements  abroad  gradually 
became  the  abode  of  the  compromised,  the  di 
vorced,  the  socially  and  financially  bankrupt. 

Within  the  last  decade  we  have  found  a  way 
to  revenge  the  slights  put  upon  us,  especially 
those  offered  to  Americans  in  the  capital  of  Gaul. 
Having  for  the  moment  no  playwrights  of  our 
own,  the  men  who  concoct  dramas,  comedies, 


WORLDLY    W*AYS    fcf 


and  burlesques  for  our  stage  find,  instead  of 
wearying  themselves  in  trying  to  produce  original 
matter,  that  it  is  much  simpler  to  adapt  from 
French  writers.  This  has  been  carried  to  such  a 
length  that  entire  French  plays  are  now  produced 
in  New  York  signed  by  American  names. 

The  great  French  playwrights  can  protect 
themselves  by  taking  out  American  copyright, 
but  if  one  of  them  omits  this  formality,  the 
"conquerors"  immediately  seize  upon  his  work 
and  translate  it,  omitting  intentionally  all  men 
tion  of  the  real  author  on  their  programmes.  This 
season  a  play  was  produced  of  which  the  first  act 
was  taken  from  Guy  de  Maupassant,  the  second 
and  third  "adapted"  from  Sardou,  with  episodes 
introduced  from  other  authors  to  brighten  the 
mixture.  The  piece  thus  patched  together  is 
signed  by  a  well-known  Anglo-Saxon  name,  and 
accepted  by  our  moral  public,  although  the  orig 
inal  of  the  first  act  was  stopped  by  the  Parisian 
police  as  too  immoral  for  that  gay  capital. 

Of  what  use  would  it  be  to  "discover"  a  new 
continent  unless  the  explorers  were  to  reap  some 
such  benefits?  Let  us  take  every  advantage  that 
our  proud  position  gives  us,  plundering  the  for 
eign  authors,  making  penal  settlements  of  their 
capitals,  and  ignoring  their  foolish  customs  and 
prejudices  when  we  travel  among  them!  In  this 
way  shall  we  effectually  impress  on  the  inferior 
races  across  the  Atlantic  the  greatness  of  the 
American  nation. 

[  266  ] 


**%x#**^^ 


IT  is  all  very  well  for  us  to  have  invaded 
Europe,  and  awakened  that  somnolent  con 
tinent  to  the  lights  and  delights  of  Ameri 
can  ways;  to  have  beautified  the  cities  of  the  old 
world  with  graceful  trolleys  and  illuminated  the 
catacombs  at  Rome  with  electricity.  Every  true 
American  must  thrill  with  satisfaction  at  these 
achievements,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  be 
longs  to  a  dominating  race,  before  which  the 
waning  civilization  of  Europe  must  fade  away 
and  disappear. 

To  have  discovered  Europe  and  to  rule  as 
conquerors  abroad  is  well,  but  it  is  not  enough, 
if  we  are  led  in  chains  at  home.  It  is  recorded 
of  a  certain  ambitious  captain  whose  "Commen 
taries"  made  our  school-days  a  burden,  that  "he 
preferred  to  be  the  first  in  a  village  rather  than 
second  at  Rome."  Oddly  enough,  we  are  con 
tented  to  be  slaves  in  our  villages  while  we  are 
conquerors  in  Rome.  Can  it  be  that  the  struggles 
of  our  ancestors  for  freedom  were  fought  in  vain? 
Did  they  throw  off  the  yoke  of  kings,  cross  the 
Atlantic,  found  a  new  form  of  government  on  a 
new  continent,  break  with  traditions,  and  sign  a 
declaration  of  independence,  only  that  we  should 
succumb,  a  century  later,  yielding  the  fruits  of 
their  hard-fought  battles  with  craven  supineness 

[267] 


fcf 


into  the  hands  of  corporations  and  municipalities; 
humbly  bowing  necks  that  refuse  to  bend  before 
anointed  sovereigns,  to  the  will  of  steamboat  sub 
ordinates,  the  insolence  of  be-diamonded  hotel- 
clerks,  and  the  captious  conductor? 

Last  week  my  train  from  Washington  arrived 
in  Jersey  City  on  time.  We  scurried  (like  good 
Americans)  to  the  ferry-boat,  hot  and  tired  and 
anxious  to  get  to  our  destination;  a  hope  de 
ferred,  however,  for  our  boat  was  kept  waiting 
forty  long  minutes,  because,  forsooth,  another 
train  from  somewhere  in  the  South  was  behind 
time.  Expostulations  were  in  vain.  Being  only 
the  paying  public,  we  had  no  rights  that  those 
autocrats,  the  officials,  were  bound  to  respect. 
The  argument  that  if  they  knew  the  southern 
train  to  be  so  much  behind,  the  ferry-boat  would 
have  plenty  of  time  to  take  us  across  and  return, 
was  of  no  avail,  so,  like  a  cargo  of  "moo-cows" 
(as  the  children  say),  we  submitted  meekly.  In 
order  to  make  the  time  pass  more  pleasantly  for 
the  two  hundred  people  gathered  on  the  boat,  a 
dusky  potentate  judged  the  moment  appropriate 
to  scrub  the  cabin  floors.  So,  aided  by  a  couple  of 
subordinates,  he  proceeded  to  deluge  the  entire 
place  in  floods  of  water,  obliging  us  to  sit  with 
our  feet  tucked  up  under  us,  splashing  the  ladies' 
skirts  and  our  wraps  and  belongings. 

Such  treatment  of  the  public  would  have 
raised  a  riot  anywhere  but  in  this  land  of  free 
dom.  Do  you  suppose  any  one  murmured?  Not 


R^CE    OF    SLAVES 


at  all.  The  well-trained  public  had  the  air  of  being 
in  church.  My  neighbors  appeared  astonished 
at  my  impatience,  and  informed  me  that  they 
were  often  detained  in  that  way,  as  the  company 
was  short  of  boats,  but  they  hoped  to  have  a 
new  one  in  a  year  or  two.  This  detail  did  not 
prevent  that  corporation  advertising  our  train  to 
arrive  in  New  York  at  three-thirteen,  instead  of 
which  we  landed  at  four  o'clock.  If  a  similar 
breach  of  contract  had  happened  in  England, 
a  dozen  letters  would  have  appeared  in  the 
"Times,"  and  the  grievance  been  well  aired. 

Another  infliction  to  which  all  who  travel  in 
America  are  subjected  is  the  brushing  atrocity. 
Twenty  minutes  before  a  train  arrives  at  its 
destination,  the  despot  who  has  taken  no  notice 
of  any  one  up  to  this  moment,  except  to  snub 
them,  becomes  suspiciously  attentive  and  insists 
on  brushing  everybody.  The  dirt  one  traveller 
has  been  accumulating  is  sent  in  clouds  into  the 
faces  of  his  neighbors.  When  he  is  polished  off 
and  has  paid  his  "quarter"  of  tribute,  the  next 
man  gets  up,  and  the  dirt  is  then  brushed  back 
on  to  number  one,  with  number  two's  collection 
added. 

Labiche  begins  one  of  his  plays  with  two  ser 
vants  at  work  in  a  salon.  "Dusting,"  says  one 
of  them,  "is  the  art  of  sending  the  dirt  from  the 
chair  on  the  right  over  to  the  sofa  on  the  left." 
I  always  think  of  that  remark  when  I  see  the 
process  performed  in  a  parlor  car,  for  when  it 
[  269  ] 


WJIYS    & 


is  over  we  are  all  exactly  where  we  began.  If  a 
man  should  shampoo  his  hair,  or  have  his  boots 
cleaned  in  a  salon,  he  would  be  ejected  as  a 
boor;  yet  the  idea  apparently  never  enters  the 
heads  of  those  who  soil  and  choke  their  fellow- 
passengers  that  the  brushing  might  be  done  in 
the  vestibule. 

On  the  subject  of  fresh  air  and  heat  we  are 
also  in  the  hands  of  officials,  dozens  of  passen 
gers  being  made  to  suffer  for  the  caprices  of  one 
of  their  number,  or  the  taste  of  some  captious 
invalid.  In  other  lands  the  rights  of  minorities 
are  often  ignored.  With  us  it  is  the  contrary. 
One  sniffling  school-girl  who  prefers  a  temper 
ature  of  80  degrees  can  force  a  car  full  of  people 
to  swelter  in  an  atmosphere  that  is  death  to 
them,  because  she  refuses  either  to  put  on  her 
wraps  or  to  have  a  window  opened. 

Street  railways  are  torture-chambers  where  we 
slaves  are  made  to  suffer  in  another  way.  You 
must  begin  to  reel  and  plunge  towards  the  door 
at  least  two  blocks  before  your  destination,  so 
as  to  leap  to  the  ground  when  the  car  slows  up  ; 
otherwise  the  conductor  will  be  offended  with 
you,  and  carry  you  several  squares  too  far,  or 
with  a  jocose  "Step  lively,"  will  grasp  your 
elbow  and  shoot  you  out.  Any  one  who  should 
sit  quietly  in  his  place  until  the  vehicle  had 
come  to  a  full  stop,  would  be  regarded  by  the 
slave-driver  and  his  cargo  as  a  poseur  who  was 
assuming  airs. 


R^CE    OF    SLAVES 


The  idea  that  cars  and  boats  exist  for  the  con 
venience  of  the  public  was  exploded  long  ago. 
We  are  made,  dozens  of  times  a  day,  to  feel  that 
this  is  no  longer  the  case.  It  is,  on  the  contrary, 
brought  vividly  home  to  us  that  such  convey 
ances  are  money-making  machines  in  the  pos 
session  of  powerful  corporations  (to  whom  we, 
in  our  debasement,  have  handed  over  the  free 
dom  of  our  streets  and  rivers),  and  are  run  in 
the  interest  and  at  the  discretion  of  their  owners. 

It  is  not  only  before  the  great  and  the  pow 
erful  that  we  bow  in  submission.  The  shop-girl 
is  another  tyrant  who  has  planted  her  foot  firmly 
on  the  neck  of  the  nation.  She  respects  neither 
sex  nor  age.  Ensconced  behind  the  bulwark  of 
her  counter,  she  scorns  to  notice  humble  aspir 
ants  until  they  have  performed  a  preliminary 
penance;  a  time  she  fills  up  in  cheerful  conver 
sation  addressed  to  other  young  tyrants,  only 
deciding  to  notice  customers  when  she  sees  their 
last  grain  of  patience  is  exhausted.  She  is  often  of 
a  merry  mood,  and  if  anything  about  your  ap 
pearance  or  manner  strikes  her  critical  sense  as 
amusing,  will  laugh  gayly  with  her  companions 
at  your  expense. 

A  French  gentleman  who  speaks  our  language 
correctly  but  with  some  accent,  told  me  that  he 
found  it  impossible  to  get  served  in  our  stores, 
the  shop-girls  bursting  with  laughter  before  he 
could  make  his  wants  known. 

Not  long  ago  I  was  at  the  Compagnie  Lyon- 


WrfTS 


naise  in  Paris  with  a  stout  American  lady,  who 
insisted  on  tipping  her  chair  forward  on  its  front 
legs  as  she  selected  some  laces.  Suddenly  the 
chair  flew  from  under  her,  and  she  sat  violently 
on  the  polished  floor  in  an  attitude  so  supremely 
comic  that  the  rest  of  her  party  were  inwardly 
convulsed.  Not  a  muscle  moved  in  the  faces  of 
the  well-trained  clerks.  The  proprietor  assisted 
her  to  rise  as  gravely  as  if  he  were  bowing  us  to 
our  carriage. 

In  restaurants  American  citizens  are  treated 
even  worse  than  in  the  shops.  You  will  see  cowed 
customers  who  are  anxious  to  get  away  to  their 
business  or  pleasure  sitting  mutely  patient,  until 
a  waiter  happens  to  remember  their  orders.  I  do 
not  know  a  single  establishment  in  this  city  where 
the  waiters  take  any  notice  of  their  customers' 
arrival,  or  where  the  proprietor  comes,  toward 
the  end  of  the  meal,  to  inquire  if  the  dishes  have 
been  cooked  to  their  taste.  The  interest  so  gen 
eral  on  the  Continent  or  in  England  is  replaced 
here  by  the  same  air  of  being  disturbed  from 
more  important  occupations,  that  characterizes 
the  shop-girl  and  elevator  boy. 

Numbers  of  our  people  live  apparently  in 
awe  of  their  servants  and  the  opinion  of  the 
tradespeople.  One  middle-aged  lady  whom  I  oc 
casionally  take  to  the  theatre,  insists  when  we 
arrive  at  her  door  on  my  accompanying  her  to 
the  elevator,  in  order  that  the  youth  who  presides 
therein  may  see  that  she  has  an  escort,  the  opinion 


R^CE    OF    SLAVES 


of  this  subordinate  apparently  being  of  supreme 
importance  to  her.  One  of  our  "gilded  youths" 
recently  told  me  of  a  thrilling  adventure  in  which 
he  had  figured.  At  the  moment  he  was  passing 
under  an  awning  on  his  way  to  a  reception,  a 
gust  of  wind  sent  his  hat  gambolling  down  the 
block.  "Think  what  a  situation,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  There  stood  a  group  of  my  friends'  footmen 
watching  me.  But  I  was  equal  to  the  situation, 
and  entered  the  house  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened!"  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  sacrificed  a  cloak  to 
please  a  queen.  This  youth  abandoned  a  new  hat, 
fearing  the  laughter  of  a  half-dozen  servants. 

One  of  the  reasons  why  we  have  become  so 
weak  in  the  presence  of  our  paid  masters  is  that 
nowhere  is  the  individual  allowed  to  protest.  The 
other  night  a  friend  who  was  with  me  at  a  theatre 
considered  the  acting  inferior,  and  expressed  his 
opinion  by  hissing.  He  was  promptly  ejected  by 
a  policeman.  The  man  next  me  was,  on  the  con 
trary,  so  pleased  with  the  piece  that  he  encored 
every  song.  I  had  paid  to  see  the  piece  once,  and 
rebelled  at  being  obliged  to  see  it  twice  to  suit 
my  neighbor.  On  referring  the  matter  to  the  box- 
office,  the  caliph  in  charge  informed  me  that  the 
slaves  he  allowed  to  enter  his  establishment  (like 
those  who  in  other  days  formed  the  court  of 
Louis  XIV.)  were  permitted  to  praise,  but  were 
suppressed  if  they  murmured  dissent.  In  his  Me 
moir  esy  Dumas,  perey  tells  of  a  "first  night"  when 
three  thousand  people  applauded  a  play  of  his 

[  273  ] 


W^TS    fcf 


and  one  spectator  hissed.  "  He  was  the  only  one 
I  respeded,"  said  Dumas,  "for  the  piece  was  bad, 
and  that  criticism  spurred  me  on  to  improve  it." 

How  can  we  hope  for  any  improvement  in  the 
standard  of  our  entertainments,  the  manners  of 
our  servants  or  the  ways  of  corporations  when  no 
one  complains?  We  are  too  much  in  a  hurry  to 
follow  up  a  grievance  and  have  it  righted.  "It 
doesn't  pay,"  "I  haven't  got  the  time,"  are 
phrases  with  which  all  such  subjects  are  dismissed. 
We  will  sit  in  over-heated  cars,  eat  vilely  cooked 
food,  put  up  with  insolence  from  subordinates, 
because  it  is  too  much  trouble  to  assert  our  rights. 
Is  the  spirit  that  prompted  the  first  shots  on 
Lexington  Common  becoming  extinct?  Have  the 
floods  of  emigration  so  diluted  our  Anglo-Saxon 
blood  that  we  no  longer  care  to  fight  for  liberty? 
Will  no  patriot  arise  and  lead  a  revolt  against 
our  tyrants? 

I  am  prepared  to  follow  such  a  leader,  and 
have  already  marked  my  prey.  First,  I  will  slay 
a  certain  miscreant  who  sits  at  the  receipt  of  cus 
toms  in  the  box-office  of  an  up-town  theatre. 
For  years  I  have  tried  to  propitiate  that  satrap 
with  modest  politeness  and  feeble  little  jokes. 
He  has  never  been  softened  by  either,  but  con 
tinues  to  "chuck"  the  worst  places  out  to  me 
(no  matter  how  early  I  arrive,  the  best  have  al 
ways  been  given  to  the  speculators),  and  to  frown 
down  my  attempts  at  self-assertion. 

When  I  have  seen  this  enemy  at  my  feet,  I 

[474] 


RtACE    OF    SLAVES 


shall  start  down  town  (stopping  on  the  way  to 
brain  the  teller  at  my  bank,  who  is  perennially 
paring  his  nails,  and  refuses  to  see  me  until  that 
operation  is  performed),  to  the  office  of  a  night- 
boat  line,  where  the  clerk  has  so  often  forced 
me,  with  hundreds  of  other  weary  victims,  to 
stand  in  line  like  convicts,  while  he  chats  with 
a  "lady  friend,"  his  back  turned  to  us  and  his  leg 
comfortably  thrown  over  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
Then  I  will  take  my  blood-stained  way  —  but, 
no  !  It  is  better  not  to  put  my  victims  on  their 
guard,  but  to  abide  my  time  in  silence  !  Courage, 
fellow-slaves,  our  day  will  come! 


N°-  40 

Introspection* 

THE  close  of  a  year  must  bring  even  to 
the  careless  and  the  least  inclined  toward 
self-inspection,  an  hour  of  thoughtful- 
ness,  a  desire  to  glance  back  across  the  past,  and 
set  one'smental  house  in  order,  before  starting  out 
on  another  stage  of  the  journey  for  that  none  too 
distant  bourne  toward  which  we  all  are  moving. 

Our  minds  are  like  solitary  dwellers  in  a  vast 
residence,  whom  habit  has  accustomed  to  live  in 
a  few  only  of  the  countless  chambers  around 
them.  We  have  collected  from  other  parts  of 
our  lives  mental  furniture  and  bric-a-brac  that 
time  and  association  have  endeared  to  us,  have 
installed  these  meagre  belongings  convenient  to 
our  hand,  and  contrived  an  entrance  giving  facile 
access  to  our  living-rooms,  avoiding  the  effort 
of  a  long  detour  through  the  echoing  corridors 
and  disused  salons  behind.  No  acquaintances,  and 
but  few  friends,  penetrate  into  the  private  cham 
bers  of  our  thoughts.  We  set  aside  a  common 
room  for  the  reception  of  visitors,  making  it  as 
cheerful  as  circumstances  will  allow  and  take  care 
that  the  conversation  therein  rarely  turns  on  any 
subject  more  personal  than  the  view  from  the 
windows  or  the  prophecies  of  the  barometer. 

In  the  old-fashioned  brick  palace  at  Kensing- 

*  December  thirty-first,  1888. 

[176] 


INTROSP  ECTION 


ton,  a  little  suite  of  rooms  is  carefully  guarded 
from  the  public  gaze,  swept,  garnished  and  tended 
as  though  the  occupants  of  long  ago  were  hourly 
expected  to  return.  The  early  years  of  England's 
aged  sovereign  were  passed  in  these  simple  apart 
ments  and  by  her  orders  they  have  been  kept 
unchanged,  the  furniture  and  decorations  re 
maining  to-day  as  when  she  inhabited  them.  In 
one  corner,  is  assembled  a  group  of  dolls,  dressed 
in  the  quaint  finery  of  1825.  A  set  of  miniature 
cooking  utensils  stands  near  by.  A  child's  scrap- 
books  and  color-boxes  lie  on  the  tables.  In  one 
sunny  chamber  stands  the  little  white-draped  bed 
where  the  heiress  to  the  greatest  crown  on  earth 
dreamed  her  childish  dreams,  and  from  which 
she  was  hastily  aroused  one  June  morning  to  be 
saluted  as  Queen.  So  homelike  and  livable  an 
air  pervades  the  place,  that  one  almost  expects 
to  see  the  lonely  little  girl  of  seventy  years  ago 
playing  about  the  unpretending  chambers. 

Affection  for  the  past  and  a  reverence  for  the 
memory  of  the  dead  have  caused  the  royal  wife 
and  mother  to  preserve  with  the  same  care  sou 
venirs  of  her  passage  in  other  royal  residences. 
The  apartments  that  sheltered  the  first  happy 
months  of  her  wedded  life,  the  rooms  where  she 
knew  the  joys  and  anxieties  of  maternity,  have 
become  for  her  consecrated  sanctuaries,  where 
the  widowed,  broken  old  lady  comes  on  certain 
anniversaries  to  evoke  the  unforgotten  past,  to 
meditate  and  to  pray. 


Who,  as  the  year  is  drawing  to  its  close,  does 
not  open  in  memory  some  such  sacred  portal, 
and  sit  down  in  the  familiar  rooms  to  live  over 
again  the  old  hopes  and  fears,  thrilling  anew 
with  the  joys  and  temptations  of  other  days? 
Yet,  each  year  these  pilgrimages  into  the  past 
must  become  more  and  more  lonely  journeys; 
the  friends  whom  we  can  take  by  the  hand  and 
lead  back  to  our  old  homes  become  fewer  with 
each  decade.  It  would  be  a  useless  sacrilege  to 
force  some  listless  acquaintance  to  accompany 
us.  He  would  not  hear  the  voices  that  call  to 
us,  or  see  the  loved  faces  that  people  the  silent 
passages,  and  would  wonder  what  attraction  we 
could  find  in  the  stuffy,  old-fashioned  quarters. 

Many  people  have  such  a  dislike  for  any  men 
tal  privacy  that  they  pass  their  lives  in  public, 
or  surrounded  only  by  sporting  trophies  and 
games.  Some  enjoy  living  in  their  pantries,  com 
posing  for  themselves  succulent  dishes,  and  inter 
ested  in  the  doings  of  the  servants,  their  com 
panions.  Others  have  turned  their  salons  into 
nurseries,  or  feel  a  predilection  for  the  stable  and 
the  dog-kennels.  Such  people  soon  weary  of  their 
surroundings,  and  move  constantly,  destroying, 
when  they  leave  old  quarters,  all  the  objects 
they  had  collected. 

The  men  and  women  who  have  thus  curtailed 
their  belongings  are,  however,  quite  contented 
with  themselves.  No  doubts  ever  harass  them 
as  to  the  commodity  or  appropriateness  of  their 


INTRO  S  P  ECTION 


lodgements  and  look  with  pity  and  contempt  on 
friends  who  remain  faithful  to  old  habitations. 
The  drawback  to  a  migratory  existence,  however, 
is  the  fad  that,  as  a  French  saying  has  put  it, 
Ceux  qui  se  refusent  les  -pensees  serieuses  tombent 
dans  les  idees  noires.  These  people  are  surprised 
to  find  as  the  years  go  by  that  the  futile  amuse 
ments  to  which  they  have  devoted  themselves 
do  not  fill  to  their  satisfaction  all  the  hours  of  a 
lifetime.  Having  provided  no  books  nor  learned 
to  practise  any  art,  the  time  hangs  heavily  on 
their  hands.  They  dare  not  look  forward  into 
the  future,  so  blank  and  cheerless  does  it  ap 
pear.  The  past  is  even  more  distasteful  to  them. 
So,  to  fill  the  void  in  their  hearts,  they  hurry 
out  into  the  crowd  as  a  refuge  from  their  own 
thoughts. 

Happy  those  who  care  to  revisit  old  abodes, 
childhood's  remote  wing,  and  the  moonlit  porches 
where  they  knew  the  rapture  of  a  first-love  whis 
per.  Who  can  enter  the  chapel  where  their  dead 
lie,  and  feel  no  blush  of  self-reproach,  nor  burn 
ing  consciousness  of  broken  faith  nor  wasted  op 
portunities?  The  new  year  will  bring  to  them  as 
near  an  approach  to  perfect  happiness  as  can  be 
attained  in  life's  journey.  The  fortunate  mortals 
are  rare  who  can,  without  a  heartache  or  regret, 
pass  through  their  disused  and  abandoned  dwell 
ings;  who  dare  to  open  every  door  and  enter 
all  the  silent  rooms;  who  do  not  hurry  shudder- 
ingly  by  some  obscure  corners,  and  return  with 

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W<ATS 


a  sigh  of  relief  to  the  cheerful  sunlight  and  mur 
murs  of  the  present. 

Sleepless  midnight  hours  come  inevitably  to 
each  of  us,  when  the  creaking  gates  of  subter 
ranean  passages  far  down  in  our  consciousness 
open  of  themselves,  and  ghostly  inhabitants 
steal  out  of  awful  vaults  and  force  us  to  look 
again  into  their  faces  and  touch  their  unhealed 
wounds. 

An  old  lady  whose  cheerfulness  under  a  hun 
dred  griefs  and  tribulations  was  a  marvel  and  an 
example,  once  told  a  man  who  had  come  to  her 
for  counsel  in  a  moment  of  bitter  trouble,  that 
she  had  derived  comfort  when  difficulties  loomed 
big  around  her  by  writing  down  all  her  cares  and 
worries,  making  a  list  of  the  subjects  that  harassed 
her,  and  had  always  found  that,  when  reduced  to 
material  written  words,  the  dimensions  of  her 
troubles  were  astonishingly  diminished.  She  rec 
ommended  her  procedure  to  the  troubled  youth, 
and  prophesied  that  his  anxieties  would  dwindle 
away  in  the  clear  atmosphere  of  pen  and  paper. 

Introspection,  the  deliberate  unlatching  of 
closed  wickets,  has  the  same  effect  of  stealing 
away  the  bitterness  from  thoughts  that,  if  left 
in  the  gloom  of  semi-oblivion,  will  grow  until 
they  overshadow  a  whole  life.  It  is  better  to  fol 
low  the  example  of  England's  pure  Queen,  vis 
iting  on  certain  anniversaries  our  secret  places 
and  holding  communion  with  the  past,  for  it  is 
by  such  scrutiny  only 


INTRO  S  P  ECTION 


That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

Those  who  have  courage  to  perform  thor 
oughly  this  task  will  come  out  from  the  silent 
chambers  purified  and  chastened,  more  lenient 
to  the  faults  and  shortcomings  of  others,  and 
better  fitted  to  take  up  cheerfully  the  burdens 
of  a  new  year. 


FINIS 


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II 


